


Parallel Lines

by AndreaChristoph



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Darkest Timeline, Drama & Romance, F/M, Finale Redux, Multiverse Theory, Mystery, Timeline Zero, redemption arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2019-10-12 15:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 54,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17470205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaChristoph/pseuds/AndreaChristoph
Summary: Amy Preston’s sister went missing in 2016.  Two years later a man named Wyatt walks into her life and tells her an impossible story - and offers her a choice that changes everything.Jiya has never fully understood her visions, and visitors from another timeline showing up with a battered journal in hand only makes things more complicated.  Already broken after everything that's happened to her, she struggles to adapt back to normal life and reconcile who she was with who she's become. That, and save her dead boyfriend, but hey, no big deal, right?Lucy has gotten so used to losing everything that she doesn't know how to cope when she gets back the most important thing in her life. And then there's the fact that the journal they're given recounts events that never took place, and as the keepers of the journal, she and Flynn know something is wrong...they just aren't sure what.  Not to mention the added complication of what the journal saystheirfuture will be...A story of infinite timelines and what happens when one goes left instead of right - and all the consequences that go along with that choice.(Multiverse finale-redux fic mainly focused on Amy, Jiya and Lucy's POVs)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize there's a certain male character that many Garcy fans are angry at. Please just bear with me through his sections.
> 
> (I preface the story with this as I know seeing his name crop up a bunch can be a big bag of nope for people.)

 

Amy isn't sure who is getting more sick of hearing from the other - her, or Agent Christopher.

_“I’m sorry, Amy.  We still don’t have any news.”_

“Of course you don’t,”  Amy mumbles, sighing as she pinches the bridge of her nose.  Agent Christopher had never been particularly forthcoming with information about Lucy’s whereabouts over the past few years since she disappeared, citing “Need to know, classified, security clearance” and other assorted bullshit excuses that allowed her to tell Amy exactly zero real information.  

And yet, Agent Christopher always sounded sincere when Amy spoke with her, as if finding Lucy was of utmost concern, even two years down the line with zero leads.  It’s far more dedication than she’d have expected from the government, as if the woman was personally invested in Lucy’s safe return from wherever she had gone.

_“Amy, I promise the moment we hear anything new, you’re the first one I’ll call._ ”

“Sure.  Thanks.”  She hangs up before Agent Christopher has a chance to say anything further, her frustration at being stonewalled yet again easing her guilt at being so blatantly rude, and she stares down at her phone for a moment, at the photo in the background of her lockscreen.  Her, Lucy and mom all smiling together at a gala where Carol had been receiving a lifetime achievement award. She could still remember her mother, radiant and still in good health, looking warmly down at her daughters as she cited them as her “greatest achievement, above all else”.

Lucy’s wide smile in the photo is a stark contrast with the last time Amy had seen her sister’s face, as Lucy crossed the lawn toward a fleet of government vehicles and turned back to look at her one last time with fearful uncertainty.

The loss of Lucy, as confusing and mysterious as the circumstances surrounding it were, was incredibly painful.  The subsequent loss of her mother six months later, as her cancer finally took its toll on her frail body, had shoved the knife deeper into the wound.  She’d done her best to persevere regardless - what else could she do? Thankfully her mother’s ample life insurance had covered the remainder of the mortgage on the house, which solved one problem for her, but she was finding it a struggle to cover all the other bills on her meager coffee shop salary.  Not exactly the most lucrative work, nor the most stimulating, but her sociology degree hadn’t gotten her very far in the already weak job market, and not many businesses looked favorably on “podcasting” as recent work experience.

She’s tired.  Physically, sure, but if she’s being honest, she’s just grown tired of the purposeless, day-to-day monotony.  Pulling double shifts virtually every day left her unable to indulge in any of her creative pursuits, and on the rare days off that she got, she found herself sleeping most of the day. She misses her best friend.  Misses her so badly her heart breaks every day all over again, as she wakes up and realizes the last two years weren’t just a bad dream and she is, in fact, alone in the world. Over and over again.

Her life has become a miserable loop.

She shoves her phone into her pocket and heads back outside to her car to retrieve her shopping bags that she’d been too tired to carry into the house earlier that day.  She hates how little energy she seems to have anymore. Can’t even carry groceries into the house because the trip is exhausting, what a load of crap. She’s only 28 and yet lately she’s started to feel like she’s 80.

As she turns to head back to the door, the bottom falls out of one of her bags, and she closes her eyes and takes a calming breath as she hears her carton of eggs slam to the pavement in a sticky wet mess, closely followed by half of her fruits and vegetables.  She watches apples roll down the slope of the driveway toward the sidewalk and fights back the tears that are trying to escape. _Come on Amy, you’re stronger than this, it’s just eggs._

She takes a shaky breath and kneels down to collect the remainder of her food that hadn’t rolled away to freedom, and has half of it gathered into her arms when she looks after her rogue apples and sees a car abruptly speed by, crushing them all beneath the tires.  She blinks, staring at them, then sinks into a sitting position on the driveway, her back against the car, and drops her head in her hands.

So this is her life now.  Done in by crushed apples. 

“Are you okay, ma’am?”

She looks up quickly as she hears the voice to her right and sees a man kneeling next to her with one of the apples in hand.  He holds it out to her, and not knowing what else to do, she takes it from him and turns it over idly in her hands.

“I’m gonna take a wild guess that you’re having a rough day,” he says, a small grin creasing the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes.  She just nods in response. “Need a hand with your groceries?”

The unexpected kindness causes an ache in her chest, reminding her of just how long it had been since she’d last had any human interaction outside of handing coffees to hurried, angry strangers who more often than not didn’t even acknowledge her.  She finally returns his smile. “Oh, that’s okay, I’m just crying over spilled milk.” She looks down at the mess on the pavement in front of her. “Or spilled eggs, I guess.”

“We all have off days, ma’am.”  He stands and holds out a hand to her, and she takes it as she too gets to her feet and brushes the dirt off the back of her jeans, only now feeling a rush of embarrassment.  “Seriously, let me give you a hand with this stuff.”

She opens her mouth to protest again, then closes it again and nods gratefully.  She’s perfectly capable of carrying a few bags into the house, but she’d be lying if she said it wasn’t a welcome change of pace to have someone help her out for once.  She lifts a few bags and heads toward the front door, the kind stranger following close behind with considerably more bags in his hands.

“I’m Amy, by the way,” she says, holding the front door open for him.  He glances around the foyer briefly before she gestures down the hall toward the kitchen, which he immediately heads for.  “I didn’t catch your name,” she calls after him, closing the door.

“Wyatt Logan,” he says, smiling again as he sets the bags on the kitchen island, and he dusts his hands off on his jeans before holding one out to her.  “Good to meet you, Amy.”

She shakes his hand, meeting his eyes briefly.  Something about the man feels almost familiar, safe, which of course is ridiculous as she’s never met him before in her life.  And somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows she should be more concerned about letting a total stranger into her house, but she can’t quite bring herself to feel uncomfortable around him.  Between his baby blue eyes and sandy brown hair, he hardly looks threatening, though she knows that doesn’t realistically mean anything, and she definitely caught sight of his ample biceps that were riddled with scars while he carried in her bags.

He disappears briefly to retrieve the rest of her bags from the car, and she puts things away into the cupboards, pausing to put the kettle on the stove.  As soon as he returns she asks him, “Can I make you a cup of tea? Just as thanks.”

He grins again.  “Sure, sounds great.”  He slides onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen island and watches as she busies herself preparing two mugs.  “This is a pretty nice place you have here, ma’am. Live alone?”

“Yeah,” she says, dropping a tea bag into each mug.  “Didn’t always, but...now I do.”

“Oh?”

She turns back and sets a mug down in front of him, then leans against the edge of the counter and blows gently on her tea to cool it.  “This is actually my mom’s place.” She looks down briefly. “Well. Used to be, anyway.”

“That’s cryptic.”

Amy shrugs.  “My mom passed away a few years ago.”

“Sorry to hear that.”  Unlike most people who said those words to her, he looks sincerely sympathetic.  “I saw a photo in the hall on the way in - I'm guessing that was your mom?”

She knows the one.  “Yeah. And my sister, Lucy.”

“Does she live nearby?”

Amy swallows the lump in her throat.  “No...she used to live here, but...not anymore.  She, uh...went missing, actually.” Before he can offer even more condolences (she’s not sure if she can handle more of it at this point, especially because it would mean admitting to herself that Lucy is gone for good), she asks wryly, “So what’s with the ‘ma’am’ thing?  I’ve gotta be younger than you.”

He chuckles softly.  “It’s a military thing.”

“Military?” she repeats, impressed.  “You don’t seem like the military type.”

That makes him laugh.  “What does the military type look like?”

“Grim?  Angry?” She’s laughing as well now, taken off guard by the question.  “Honestly, I’m talking out of my ass, I have no idea.”

Wyatt raises an eyebrow, that charming half smile back on his face.  Amy blushes. He’s not her usual type by a long shot, but that doesn’t make him any less easy on the eyes.

“I’m retired Delta Force, actually.  Master sergeant.”

“No idea what any of that means, but it sounds impressive.”

“Kind of like the Navy SEALS, only a lot less water.”

She laughs.  “Less water, more sand?”

“Something like that.”  He tips the mug and downs the last of his tea, then sets it back on the counter and gets to his feet.  “I’d better head out. I hope your day gets better. It was really nice to meet you, Amy.”

“You too, Wyatt.”  She’s blushing again.  This is stupid. Proximity to an attractive man shouldn’t affect her this much.  Then again, it had been a while since she’d gotten to know someone new, let alone how long it had been since... _other_ things had happened.  As he turns to leave, she takes a quick step after him.  “Wait.” He stops abruptly and looks back at her, and the blush only gets worse as she stammers, “Did you, uh...maybe want to grab a drink later?”  She quickly adds, “Totally okay if it’s no, just thought I’d ask, you know, just as a thank you-”

“That sounds nice, actually.”

Well, that’s a welcome change of pace, things going her way for once.  “Great.” She hunts for a scrap of paper somewhere on the messy counter, then eventually tears the corner off one of the overdue utility bills on the fridge before scribbling down her number.  “Maybe at Finnegan's downtown? We could meet at 8:00-ish?”

“Why don’t I swing by around 8:00 and pick you up?”

“Oh...sure.  Yeah, sure, that sounds great.”  She smiles, tucking a strand of hair back behind her ear.

“Perfect.”  He gives her one final million-dollar grin and punctuates it with a wink.  “See you at 8:00, Amy.”

* * *

She’s in the dining room downing a shot of vodka for liquid courage when she sees a car pull up in front of the house, and she quickly hurries to gather her jacket and purse (really, it’s more of a functional satchel - her sister was always the more fashion obsessed one).  As she crosses the lawn toward the car she sees Wyatt lean across the passenger seat to push the door open for her and she slips into the seat next to him, wincing as the door slams shut just slightly too hard. “Sorry,” she mumbles, but thankfully he just waves off her concern.

He looks slightly more nervous now than he did earlier in the day, which she supposes is...promising?  In a way? At least she’s not the only one.

“So, where are you from?”  She’s already mentally kicking herself before she’s finished her sentence.  She loathes small talk and has no idea why she’s trying to make it, except perhaps to break the silence that Wyatt doesn’t seem inclined to break himself.

“Texas,” he says, not looking away from the road.

“Really?  But you don’t have an accent.”

That gets her a glance from the corner of his eye.  “Not every Texan has an accent. But I moved away when I was pretty young.”

“Where to?”

“San Diego.”  He grins at her surprised expression.  “Yeah, I know. Guess I wasn’t much of a country boy.  How about you?”

“Born and bred San Francisco resident for life.  And yeah, I’m aware how boring that is. I traveled in my early twenties a lot, much to my mom’s chagrin - she wanted me to start university right after high school, like my sister.”

“Bit of a rebel, I gather?”

Amy laughs.  “Mom would definitely say so, but I’d say it was more like...mom had impossibly high standards that no one could ever hope to live up to.  Didn’t stop Lucy from trying, though. I pushed her to break away, do her own thing for once, but all she ever wanted was to live up to mom’s legacy.”  She looks down at her bag in her lap, one hand playing idly with the zipper. “For all the good it did her.” After a beat, she looks over at Wyatt and forces a weak smile.  “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he says kindly.  “Your sister sounds like...quite the woman.”

“She was.”  Amy winces at her own words.  It’s the first time she’s referred to Lucy in the past tense.  Part of her has always held out hope that Lucy was somewhere out there in the world living her best life, but that part got smaller and smaller as the months went by.

What an inopportune moment to realize you’re giving up hope.  

They reach the pub a few short minutes later, and this time Wyatt dashes around the car to open the door for her.  She murmurs a quiet thanks and follows him into the crowded bar, the noise hitting them all at once as the door opens.  The general atmosphere is one of high spirits, with plenty of loud conversations interspersed with laughter. It’s been a very, very long time since Amy last went out, and a smile creeps on to her face as she edges through the crowd, Wyatt a few steps ahead of her.

They find a quiet corner of the bar (or quiet relative to the overall noise, anyway) and claim a small table, and Amy seats herself as Wyatt heads to the bar to grab them drinks.  She glances around at the other patrons, still smiling, soaking in their vibrant energy. She’d always been an extrovert (ever the opposite of her sister), and right now she feels a bit like she’s been sleeping for years and just woke up.

She’s still looking out over the crowd when something catches her eye.  Or someone, to be more precise. A red-haired woman with legs for days is seated at the edge of the bar, leaning back casually in her seat and smirking as she looks back at Amy.  Amy swallows, her cheeks burning; she’s fully aware of how average looking she is (and she knows if Lucy was there, she’d smack her upside the head for that thought), and to catch the eye of two gorgeous people in one day is...odd, to say the least.  Just as she’s debating whether or not to approach the woman (even just to ask “Why are you staring at me?”), Wyatt reappears with two beers in hand, and he hands her one as he takes a seat next to her.

They make small talk a bit longer before Wyatt goes quiet, glancing out at the crowd with an expression as if he’s mustering the courage for something.  He picks idly at the label on his beer, then takes a final swig of it before turning back to her. “Listen, Amy, I haven’t been...entirely up front with you.”

She raises an eyebrow, her body tensing.  That could mean anything, but she was starting to get an awful feeling in the pit of her stomach.  “How so?”

“It wasn’t just a coincidence that I happened by your house today.  I actually...well, I know your sister.”

The awful feeling turns into a full-blown wave of nausea.  A million scenarios are running through her head of how he could know Lucy, very few of them good, and she swallows.  “How, exactly?”

He seems to sense her building trepidation and tries to put her fears to rest with another smile, but this time it does nothing to ease her nerves.  She grips her bag on the seat next to her, tense, unsure what’s coming next.

“We work together.  Sort of.”

The way he words it isn’t entirely lost on her.  “Work,” she repeats, her heart beating faster in her chest.  “Not ‘worked’?”

“Yeah.”  His smile gets wider.  “As in, presently.”

Her heart is absolutely hammering now.  “She’s alive?” she whispers, eyes wide, and Wyatt nods.

“Alive and well.”

“Where is she?  Does she know you’re here?  Is she...is she coming home?”  She rattles off questions one after the other, not allowing him any room to respond, and he laughs, grinning at her frantic queries.

“Hey, hey, slow down.  She’s safe. She can’t come home, unfortunately, not yet anyway.  And no, she doesn’t know I’m here.”

That’s interesting.  And possibly concerning.  “ _Why_ are you here?” she finally asks, and Wyatt sighs.

“I could tell you, but it’s probably easier if I show you.”  He stands up from the table and hands her the key fob for the car.  “Meet me outside, I’ll settle our tab and be right out.”

Amy nods and makes her way back through the crowd, heading for the door.  She glances briefly once more in the direction of the bar, to where the redhead had been sitting, and finds the space empty.   _Guess she wasn’t that interested ._   

She abruptly bumps into someone and quickly faces forward once more, her mouth open to apologize, until she looks at the person she bumped into.  Hazel eyes. Red hair.

“Hey there,” the woman murmurs, drawing close to her, and Amy freezes in place, staring silently and not quite sure what to say.  She swallows and opens her mouth to say hello, and immediately feels something pressed against her stomach. _Wait, is that…?_

She’s about to look down when the woman seizes her arm roughly and swaps positions to stand just behind her shoulder.  Yes, she’s certain now.

The gorgeous redhead has a gun to her back.

_Fuck fuck shit fuck what is going on-_

“Listen carefully, sweetheart,” the woman murmurs softly in her ear.  “We’re going to walk out of here, calmly and quietly. And if you say anything, make any sudden moves, do anything other than silently put one foot in front of the other, I will put a bullet through your spine.  Are we clear?”

Amy nods slightly, afraid to move her head too much, and moves forward as instructed, painfully aware of the cold metal pressed against her back and the hand tightly gripping her right arm.  She glances at the people they pass and not one meets her panicked eyes, and they quickly reach the front door without attracting any attention whatsoever.

Her ears are still ringing from the noise inside when the door shuts loudly behind them, leaving them in relative silence on the deserted street.  She still has the key fob gripped tightly in her hand, and so far it seems like her captor hasn’t noticed. The woman pauses a moment, looking up and down the street, then leads them up the road.  “Back alley will work, I guess.”

Amy has to suppress a noise of fear that fights to escape her throat.  She’s never even seen this woman before, let alone done anything to her - why was she threatening her?

They’ve reached the mouth of the alley when Amy finally takes a steadying breath.  

_Now or never._

She squeezes the keyfob and immediately the car alarm goes off down the road, catching her captor’s full attention for half a second.

Half a second is all she needs.

Amy whirls around and drives a fist into the woman’s jaw as she’s turning back to her, immediately following it up with a kick to the stomach to knock her back off her feet.  Unfortunately, her attacker keeps her balance, but it gives Amy enough time to shove past her and run toward the bar, just as Wyatt finally appears. It takes him a second to spot her sprinting toward him and he gives her an odd look before noticing the distant figure further up the street.

“She’s got a gun!” Amy shouts as she nears Wyatt, and she grabs his arm while she continues to run.  Or attempts to continue to run, as Wyatt plants himself firmly in place and she ends up skidding to a stop.  “What are you doing?! We need to call the police!”

“Get down,” he tells her firmly, ushering her to the front of the car quickly and crouching next to her, and then there’s a gun in his hand as well, because why wouldn’t there be?  She wonders for a second if the whole day has just been one long nightmare, a thought that is quickly dashed out of her head as Wyatt fires a round up the road.

“Where did you-”  She trails off as she remembers he’s ex-military.  Of course he’d have a concealed carry license. She’s never been much of a fan of the military, but right about now she’s never been more thankful for lax gun laws.  He ducks back beside her as the woman returns fire, and Amy finally allows herself a panicked shriek, covering her head with her arms. She feels Wyatt squeeze her shoulder firmly, just enough to get her attention, and looks up at him as he shoves the keys into one of her hands.

“When I say go, you’re going to get in the car and start it, fast as you can.  Are we clear?” She doesn’t respond immediately, and he repeats somewhat more firmly, “ _Are we clear?_ ”  She jumps at his sharp tone and nods frantically.  His confidence is reassuring, but only _just._  He waits for a pause in the gunshots, then loudly hisses, “ _Now!_ ”

She jumps to her feet and is at the driver’s side door in less than a second, fumbling with the key fob to unlock the car.  Wyatt is firing his gun up the street again as she slides into the driver’s seat, and he quickly jumps into the passenger seat next to her as she turns the key to start the engine.

“Drive!” he shouts, leaning halfway out the door to return fire while she floors it, and it’s only once his clip is empty that he collapses back into the seat and pulls the door shut.  He’s taking deep breaths, eyes closed.

And then he laughs. 

“ _Why are you laughing?!_ ” she shrieks, driving randomly in the absence of a better plan.  He looks over at her, still grinning and catching his breath.

“I’m impressed, Amy.  It’s not every day Emma gets her ass handed to her by a civilian.”

She has no idea what to make of...well, anything he said, really, but she does feel a stab of pride that she’d managed to impress someone who is clearly better at this than her.  “I have a black belt. Karate.”

“Lucy never mentioned.  But I definitely believe it.”

He says it so offhand, so casually, she finds herself believing that he knows her sister (or perhaps just wants to believe him).  Either way, she relaxes back into the seat and lets her foot off the gas a little. “Where are we going?”

“Head for the docks.”

“What’s at the docks?”

He reaches into his pocket and produces what she assumes is a fresh clip and slides it into his gun before tucking it back into his concealed shoulder holster.  “You may not believe me until you see it.”

“Try me.”

“Alright.”  He retrieves his phone from his pocket and swipes through it as he continues talking.  “I’m sure you remember that night two years ago when Homeland Security showed up to haul Lucy off.  That same night they came and hauled my ass in too. It was for a top secret project, advanced technology from Mason Industries that was stolen, and they needed us to retrieve it and for me to...take out the thief.”

She can certainly make a guess at what ‘take out’ refers to.  “Is that why Lucy’s been missing? Is she still on that project?  Is that why that woman attacked me?”

“Yes and no.”  He finally finds what he’s looking for on his phone, and holds it up for Amy to look at while they’re stopped at a red light.  She glances at it, brow furrowed. It’s some sort of blueprint for what looks like a pod of some kind, stamped in the corner with the Mason Industries logo and a large TOP SECRET watermark printed across the entire page.

“What am I looking at?”

“It’s called the Mothership.”  He slips his phone back into his pocket.  “It uses closed time-like curves - I think, I’m not very savvy on the science myself, just repeating what I’ve been told - anyway, it uses closed time-like curves and gravitational waves to travel.”

She looks at him askance.  She can hear it in his voice.  There’s something he’s not saying.  “Travel where?”

“Through time.”

She can’t help the scornful laugh that escapes, and she lets her foot off the gas entirely, debating whether to slam on the brake as well.  “ _What?_ ”

“Listen, I know it sounds insane, but that’s the reason Lucy has been missing all these years.  We went back on that first mission in 2016, things got out of hand and history changed, and when we returned, _you_ were gone.  Erased. It’s only recently we realized that we’d returned to an alternate timeline, created because of the changes we made, thinking we’d just come back to our own.  That’s why Lucy never came back to this one. She had no idea it still existed at all.”

“I…”  Amy shakes her head, bewildered by what she’s hearing.  “You’re right, this does sound insane. Do you actually expect me to believe any of this?”

“I get it, Amy, I do.  I didn’t buy it either when they first told me.  I had to see it to believe it. And that’s where we’re going.”

“And where is that?”

“To the ship.”  He turns to her, his face intensely serious and eyes almost pleading with her to believe him.  “Amy, you’re all Lucy talks about. All she wants in this world is to get you back. It’s the whole reason she’s still doing any of this.  And I can _do_ that for her.  For both of you.”

“Do what?”

“Take you to her.”

That gets her.  She wrenches the wheel to the side and slams on the brakes.  “You’ve gotta be kidding me. First, you lie about who you are-”

“I didn’t-”

“-and then I nearly get murdered by someone I’ve never seen in my life, _then_ I almost get shot in a fucking gunfight, you tell me this insane story about time travel and now you’re _kidnapping me?!_ ”  Wyatt looks gobsmacked and is silent for a beat.  Clearly, it hadn’t occurred to him how all of this would come across to someone who wasn’t privy to whatever the hell is going on in his head.  “I’m sorry, Wyatt, you seem like a really nice guy overall, but I have a life here and I’m not stupid enough to let a relative stranger drag me out to an abandoned warehouse to see his ‘time machine’ when it’s far more likely I’m going to end up dead at the bottom of the ocean instead.”  

She shoves the gearshift into park and fumbles with her seatbelt, and he quickly reaches for his phone again.  “Wait, wait, okay, hang on.” He puts his free hand on her arm as she goes to open the door and as she turns back to yell at him to let go, she sees the photo on the phone that he’s now holding up for her to see.

Lucy. 

She can’t help but reach out and snatch the phone out of his hand, and he lets her, staying quiet as she examines the photo.  She’s never seen it before, but her sister’s face is unmistakable. She looks far more tired and depressed than she’s ever seen her, but it’s _her_.

“Where did you…”

“Go to the next photo.”

She complies, swiping the screen to the left, and sees a photo of a group of people seated around a table for dinner (in what looks like...a bomb shelter?).  In this one, Lucy is smiling - and across the table from her, also smiling widely, is Wyatt.

“That was Lucy’s birthday this year.  That’s our team. Me and Lucy, then there’s Rufus and Jiya-”  He points at people on the screen as he names them. “-who are our pilots and part of the science team, then there’s-”

“...Connor Mason?”  She looks up at him.  “You’ve gotta be joking.”  Looks back down and notices another face.  “Wait, is that-”

“Agent Denise Christopher, yeah.  She started the team, she’s sort of the head of operations.”

“But she’s….she’s _here_ , I talked to her this afternoon-”

“She’s never traveled with us.  Whenever we go back, in those timelines we return to, everything is mostly the same in terms of our situation, save anything that alters because of changes we made.  That’s why Denise is still here - because she never went with us on that first trip. But every timeline we return to, she’s there as well. Which I realize is confusing as hell.”

She’s starting to get a headache.

“And who is the last guy?”  The one staring at her sister rather than the camera, as if he’d only intended to glance at her and was caught at just the wrong moment.  

Wyatt’s jaw clenches as she looks back up at him, his eyes still on the photo.  “That would be Flynn.”

“And what role does he play in your group of rag-tag time travelers?”  She can’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice as she says it, but something in the back of her mind is actually, unbelievably, starting to buy his story.

“He’s muscle and intel.”  Wyatt doesn’t elaborate any further, leading Amy to assume he and Flynn have a less than friendly relationship, especially if the clenched jaw and narrowed eyes were anything to go off of.

She stares at the photo a moment longer, then hands the phone back to him.  “Let's say I do buy your story. Why are you here alone, if you’ve got a whole team?”

“It’s...a long story.  I’d need to catch you up on everything that’s happened, and that’ll take a lot longer than this drive.  I can explain everything, but we need to get a move on before Emma tracks us down again.”

“And who is she-”

“Later,” he says, gently but firmly.  “I’ll explain all of it. But we need to go.”

She sits looking at him silently, mulling everything over in her head.  Nothing Wyatt had done to this point screamed _I’m planning to strangle you in the woods_ , and then there were the photos of Lucy.  Her sister clearly trusted the guy in some capacity.

Not to mention, she doesn’t really have much of anything to keep her there anymore.  A shitty job, an empty house inhabited by the ghost of her happy family life, struggling daily just to get by and with no proverbial carrot on a stick to keep her going.  But here was a way out. Get her sister back (maybe), have a purpose beyond just existing (maybe), and end the miserable loop that is her daily life (maybe).

All it would require is trusting him.

_Well.  What do I have to lose?_

“Do we have enough time for me to go back to the house, get some of my things?”

She can see the relief on his face at her words.  “It’s not safe. Emma’s probably camping out waiting for you there.  We can replace anything you need once we get back to my timeline.”

“But…”  She trails off.  Most things in the house aren’t particularly sentimental for her, beyond photos, but she still has her locket containing the same photo from the gala (part of a matching set Carol had given her daughters to commemorate the night).  And if there was a likelihood she’d be seeing Lucy again...what really did she actually need to take with her? “Alright. In that case, you’d better drive. You know where we’re going better than I do.”

* * *

They pull up to the pier a short time later and Wyatt parks the car behind one of the warehouses, killing the engine and the lights immediately.  It leaves an eerie silence behind, broken only by the nearby sound of the ocean waves crashing against the dock. Wyatt twists in his seat, looking intently at their surroundings, before deciding it’s clear.  “Stay close to me.”

Which probably didn’t mean “hold on to me” when he said it, but Amy grips his arm all the same, walking a half step behind him, her eyes darting around nervously.  Being in the presence of someone who knows what they’re doing helps somewhat, but even then, she isn’t quite ready to trust him fully.

“What about your car?” she whispers, trying to avoid making any noise. 

“It was a rental.”  He draws his gun and holds it at his side as they near the corner of the building and gestures for her to stand next to him with their backs against the wall.  Amy quickly complies, and waits as Wyatt leans around the edge, gun held out ahead of him to survey the space for any threats. After a few seconds, he nods for her to follow and leads her to a door that is currently half closed, the lock having clearly been broken at an earlier point in time.

Inside she sees a massive...something, currently hidden below an army green tarp.  Wyatt sets his gun down on a crate next to it and tugs the tarp off in one smooth movement, revealing what looks like...a giant metal eyeball?

“That doesn’t look anything like the schematics you showed me earlier,” she says, wary.

“That would be because this ship is the prototype to that one.”  He smacks a hand against the side of it, producing a hollow metal sound that echoes in the space.  “This one we call the Lifeboat. Little less fancy than the Mothership but she’s gotten us out of a lot of close calls.”  He quickly enters a code into a keypad next to the iris of the eyeball-ship and she jumps as the iris then slides to the left, revealing a hollow interior with four seats set in a circle and multiple screens all around them.  He kneels down in the doorway and extends a hand toward her. “You can have a look. Just don’t touch any buttons.”

She reaches for his hand, and has nearly grabbed it, when a shot goes off.  The bullet cuts straight through his palm before pinging off the Lifeboat exterior and ricocheting into a nearby crate.

Wyatt immediately cries out in pain and grabs his wrist with his good hand, and Amy whirls around, looking for the source of the shot.  She can’t see anything, and so dashes to the nearest crate to crouch behind it for safety.

“Amy!”

She looks back at Wyatt as he calls to her and sees him gesturing toward the crate, his face still wracked with pain.  She stands just enough to see the top and spots his gun still lying there.

“I don’t know how to use this!” she hisses as she grabs it and ducks once more.  He hops to the ground, grunting in pain from his wounded hand being jostled, and dashes toward her as more shots go off in his direction, peppering the ground beside him.  He’s nearly at her side as a bullet hits his leg, and he stumbles to his knees as he reaches her, but manages to slip around and take cover behind the crate all the same. Amy quickly gives him the gun, her hands shaking in terror.  “What do we do?”

He looks at her, attempting another smile to calm her nerves, but she can see the sweat on his forehead and hear him breathing roughly, and can tell he’s clearly in a lot of pain.

“Oh, Wyatt!” they hear a voice call, a sing-song lilt to her tone that is punctuated by the click of her heels on the cement floor.  “You have nowhere to go from here, as I’m sure you’ve already realized. Why don’t you come out and chat? I promise I’ll ask questions first and shoot later.”

“Yeah, because that’s a compelling offer,” he mutters under his breath, gripping his gun in his left hand.  It’s clearly not his usual shooting hand, but as the other one still has blood dripping steadily down his forearm from the hole in his palm, he’s clearly working with what he’s got.  He flicks the safety off and grips it tightly, taking steadying breaths as he braces himself to fire. “Amy,” he whispers, looking her way again, “I need you to do something for me.”

“I can’t-”

“You can.  You’ll be fine.”  He grins. “You’re Lucy’s sister.  Preston women are tough as nails.”

She can’t help but smile at that, and nods.  “What is it?”

“I’m going to lay down cover fire in a second.  I need you to get into the Lifeboat, power it on, and key in our coordinates.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“There’s a panel-”  A bullet zips over them again and they both flinch; Emma is clearly growing impatient with waiting.  “-in the center, opposite the door. There’s a switch below that for powering it on, and then you just key in the coordinates and activate the autopilot.”

“But what are the-”

“There’s another button near the autopilot, it says ‘copy forward return coordinates’ or something like that.  It’ll take you back to wherever it originated from, which in this case-” Another flurry of gunshots overhead. “-is where Lucy is.  Just get the Lifeboat up and running, enter the coordinates and strap in. As soon as I’m in there with you, hit the autopilot button.”  He’s about to place his free hand over hers, then remembers the state it’s in and thinks better of it. “One more thing. If this doesn’t go as planned, for whatever reason - if I get too injured to get in or...or worse, I want you to leave without me.”

“I can’t-”

“Not up for discussion.”  He’s panting now, but his eyes are no less intense.  “You leave if things go south. You can come back for me if you need to.  But if Emma gets her hands on you…” He trails off and she can easily fill in the blanks herself.  “And if you do have to go back without me, tell Lucy...I left her something. Tell her to search my room and she’ll find it.”

She wants to cry from sheer terror, wants to just run away and wake up from the nightmare, wants to beg him not to leave her alone.  Instead, she nods quickly, her heart hammering in her chest. Wyatt smiles again.

“You’ll be fine.  You ready?”

Another nod.

“Okay.”  They wait silently for another pause in the gunfire, and she hears the sound of what she guesses is an empty clip clattering to the floor as the woman reloads.  It’s the moment he was waiting for. “Amy, NOW!”


	2. Chapter 2

  __

_24 Hours Prior_

Lucy had been called many things in her life.  Teacher’s pet, virtuoso, doctor, professor, the next Carol Preston (that particular one had always grated on her nerves).  But she’d never been called a fighter, and the ice pack currently pressed against her cheek, at once both painfully cold and soothing to her battered face, is a stark reminder of that.

Fighting had always been Amy’s wheelhouse.  Carol had given the girls options for extracurriculars, a fairly limited list of activities to choose from that were Mom Preapproved, and while Lucy had begrudgingly opted for cello lessons (can’t disappoint mom, after all, no matter how badly she’d have preferred singing lessons instead), Amy had taken her mother’s money that was intended to sign her up for piano lessons and found a way to enroll herself in karate without a parental signature.  By the time Carol realized what had happened, a couple years had gone by and Amy was already far enough into the belts that her mother realized it would be a waste of time and money to demand she stop now. Eventually she’d even been proud of her, in her own way. You’d never catch Carol bragging to colleagues about her scrappy daughter, and anytime she had to go pick Amy up from school for playground fights she’d excuse herself as having a “medical appointment”, but without fail she showed up to all of Amy’s belt exams and demo fights, and Lucy even caught her cheering as Amy won every now and then.  A cheer she’d immediately disguise as a cough as she quickly took her seat again, but Amy and Lucy caught it every time. She may have been eternally disappointed Amy wouldn’t ever be the next Rachmaninoff, but she loved her daughters more than anything else, her own reputation included.

So her sister had acted as her protector for most of their years, which mostly involved shielding Lucy from unwanted advances when they’d go to the bar.  When she’d been humiliated by a potential paramour in her early days of university, Amy had made her way to the Stanford residences, hunted the guy down, and given him an ass kicking he wouldn’t soon forget (not the least because a tall, lanky 15-year-old girl gave it to him).  She’d been barred from the campus thereafter, to their mother’s utter humiliation, but Amy claimed it was worth it. And when they’d gone out for Amy’s 23rd birthday and a man at the bar wouldn’t take Lucy’s no for an answer, Amy had gotten them thrown out and nearly ended up charged with assault; she quickly named it her best birthday ever.

Lucy’s scrappy little sister kept her safe, without fail, time and time again...until she wasn’t around to do it anymore.

The throbbing in Lucy’s cheek intensifies and she shifts the fast melting ice pack, wincing as it pushes on just the wrong spot.  She can still feel Emma’s weight perched on her, feel her fists slamming into her face over and over again, feel the burning hate radiating from the other woman’s eyes as she attempted to beat her to death, something she would have likely accomplished if not for Flynn appearing in the nick of time, eternally her guardian angel.  She still had no idea why he hadn’t gone after Emma immediately upon learning she was safe, ended all of this in one fell swoop.

No.  No, that would be a lie.  She knows exactly why he didn’t leave her laying there, spitting out blood and gasping for air.  

But she’s numb, rage burning inside her chest, and nothing is getting through.  Her mother’s distraught face, as she lay dying against the wall of a small San Francisco photography studio, is haunting her.  Her words - _“It’s yours, you just need to reach out and take it”_ \- are echoing in her mind.  She isn’t quite sure who she even is anymore.  She’s lost too much - her life, her family, her identity - and she feels hollowed out, an empty husk of who she used to be.

There are footsteps off to the side and Lucy processes somewhere in the back of her mind that it’s Wyatt’s shoes she sees standing next to her in her peripheral vision.  She doesn’t look up. All she wants is to be alone, and she figures if she stays silent he’ll take the hint.

Unfortunately, Wyatt never was very perceptive of nonverbal signals and seats himself beside her.  She doesn’t acknowledge him, but it doesn’t seem to deter him as he eventually murmurs, “This is my fault.  All of it.”

Fantastic.  The last thing she feels like doing at the moment is coaching Wyatt through another bout of self-loathing, especially when he’s not wrong.  But it’s not her nature to let anyone suffer, regardless of how deeply they’d hurt her, regardless of how much they’d screwed up, regardless of how right they are.  She sighs and lets the hand holding her ice pack fall to her lap. “No, it’s not, Wyatt.”

“I promised Rufus that I wouldn’t let anything happen to him.  I was supposed to protect him. And then I messed everything up.”  He looks down at his hands. “Just like I did with us.”

She really, truly can’t deal with this right now.  But she opened this pandora’s box of a conversation and would have to see it through.  “It’s true. You did mess things up with us.” At that he looks up at her, the guilt on his face piercing through her numb armor for a moment, and she finds herself giving him a small smile that he eventually returns.  She’d let him think it was a joke. “But Rufus is not on you. We all stood together. He knew the risks and he accepted them willingly. You brought Jiya home safe. That’s what mattered most to Rufus.”

It seems to do the trick, as he nods gratefully at the absolution she’s granting him.  She lifts her ice pack and presses it back to her cheek that is engulfed in a wave of fire again.

“I love you, Lucy.”

She freezes, taken off guard, and looks over at him.  Something twists sharply in her stomach, a mix of emotions she can’t quite pin down, but whatever she’s feeling, it isn’t something good.  She sighs. “Wyatt…”

“You don’t have to say it back,” he quickly adds, cutting her off.  “You don’t have to say anything. I just should have said it a long time ago and I didn’t, so I’m saying it now.  Rufus wanted me to admit it-”

“Wyatt, stop.”  There’s no anger in her voice, but he winces anyway.  “You’re in pain. Both of us are. We both lost people we loved today - Jessica, Rufus, my...my mom - and that’s _exactly_ why this is the wrong time for...this.”  More importantly, a voice in the back of her mind is screaming for her to tell him it’s too late _._  He was saying words that once would have made her heart soar, but that was before...everything.  Before his wife returned. Before he’d chosen Jessica over her. Before she had to listen to him down the hall with Jessica, every laugh a punch to the gut.  Before he’d become a father-to-be when just weeks previous he’d been with her, making her feel like a stand-in he’d settled for in his wife’s absence.

Before he’d gotten Rufus killed.

Of course, she’ll never say any of it to him.  Forever the peacekeeper.

So instead she looks away and whispers, “I can’t believe he’s gone.”  She doesn’t have to say who she means; Wyatt understands immediately. They’d become an unlikely family over the past several years together, a team united not just by a common enemy, but because they genuinely loved each other.  The loss of Rufus had hit the two of them almost as hard as it hit Jiya. They’d left their brother behind, left him laying in an unmarked grave in 1888. No, she can’t pin this all on Wyatt, as much as she’d like to. They’d all assured Rufus they’d keep him safe.  They’d all committed to saving both him and Jiya. And in the end, they’d all buried him.

Wyatt reaches for her hand, but stops as he sees the expression on her face.  She swallows and shakes her head, wraps her arms around herself instead, and he nods, more to himself than anyone else.  He was finally learning to respect her boundaries, and it was too little, too late.

“This feels just like when they told me they’d found Jess’s body,” he mumbles, fidgeting with his wedding ring.  “Like god is determined to take away everything I love.”

“I know the feeling,” Lucy murmurs.

“I’m sorry, Lucy.  About your mom.”

“I know,” she whispers, clenching her teeth and swallowing in an effort to keep tears at bay.  She believes him, but if she starts breaking down now, she’s not sure she’ll be able to stop, and isn’t ready to let go of her numb rage yet.  To allow herself to fall apart. To let them all see her that way, the way they already see her - weak, in need of saving, the simple history teacher who doesn’t belong there.

Most of them, anyway.

Instead, she gets to her feet and heads into the kitchen proper with her arms still wrapped around herself, looking absently at her surroundings.  Dimly she’s aware of Wyatt’s footsteps receding down the hall away from her, and doesn’t turn. Eventually she decides on tea and drags a chair behind her toward the counter, intending to use it as a boost to the top shelf where her jar of tea bags is tucked away.

At that same moment, she notices Flynn entering the kitchen from the other hallway, his shoulder cleaned up but arm still in a sling.  He won’t meet her eyes, and seeing as she has no idea how long he’d been standing there, she has a good guess as to why.

Before she can utilize the chair, he stops beside her and reaches for the jar on the upper shelf, both feet still firmly planted on the floor.  He sets it on the counter wordlessly and turns to leave, but she puts a hand to his arm, stopping him. That finally forces him to look at her, and she can see something in his face, something painfully familiar, as she looks up at him.  Grief. It’s only in that moment it occurs to her that she hasn’t seen him this way in months. His jaw clenches when he meets her eyes, as if he can tell that she sees through his stoic mask to the pain he’s hiding. It wasn’t just her and Wyatt that had lost a brother, something she’d apparently taken for granted.

“Let me make you a cup too,” she says quietly, her hand still on his arm, and Flynn is silent, obviously debating whether or not to say yes.  Then he nods and seats himself at one of the kitchen tables, looking blankly down at his distorted reflection in the beat up stainless steel surface.  Lucy sets the kettle to boil and places two mugs next to it, then sits across from Flynn, hands clasped in front of her. She isn’t any more sure what to say to him than she was with Wyatt, but she can tell what Flynn really needs is the company.  A friend. Her. He’d been there for her enough times in the past year that she owes him this at least.

Flynn rests his good hand on the table as well, fidgeting idly with his wedding ring.  They’re both silent a beat, then he clears his throat quietly and says, voice somewhat strained, “I’d just loaned him a book.”  She isn’t sure if he’s expecting a response, but she suspects not, and waits silently for him to continue. “One of the few science fiction novels I stumbled across when looking through some of the empty rooms further into the facility.  Utter crap, but I’ve always had a soft spot for the genre. He saw me reading it and asked to borrow it once I finished. We’d been discussing it over beers in our downtime the last week or two. I think the guy was finally warming up to me a little.”  He swallows heavily, and Lucy slides a hand forward to take his. Flynn’s fingers curl around her hand on reflex, dwarfing her palm, but she can see his shoulders relax somewhat at her touch, as if he’s giving himself permission to let down his guard for a moment and lean on her for support.

They’re sitting like that still, in silence and simply being there for each other, when they hear it.  A low hum that builds into a snapping boom. Their heads turn immediately toward the Lifeboat, eyes going wide as they see the second ship that has just landed.  

A ship that matches their one-of-a-kind ship sitting next to it.

“What the hell?” Flynn mutters, getting quickly to his feet and striding quickly toward the launchpad.  Lucy dashes around the table to follow him, Denise appearing shortly thereafter with her gun drawn and the majority of the team trailing after her, the notable exception being Wyatt.  They wait, breath held, as the hatch hisses open and slides to the left.

And Lucy watches herself emerge from the ship.

“What…” she breathes, words failing her as she sees Wyatt appear next to mirror image.  Neither of them looks the same, everything from their clothes to their faces starkly different, both decked out in army issue gear and Wyatt with a poorly thought out beard on his face.  Her eyes are drawn to the sawed-off shotgun her other self is wearing, and she wonders for a moment if she’s just dreaming.

The other Lucy jumps to the ground, her heavy combat boots echoing in the silence, and heads directly for her with the other Wyatt following close behind.  Lucy’s eyes drift briefly down to the book clutched in her other self’s hand.

“What is going on?” she asks, feeling a bit like she’s talking to herself, and the other Lucy nods for her to follow as she heads right past her.

“We need a word.  We have a lot to cover and not much time to do so.”

Confused, not to mention suspicious, the group follows as she makes her way over to the couches.  She tucks the book she’s holding under her arm to free up her hands and rummages around underneath one of the couches, pulling out a beat-up metal ammo case (clearly part of the original 1960s bunker decor), and unlatches the lid to reveal a half-empty bottle of vodka.  The group gives each other a look, save Lucy and Flynn, who won’t even look at each other let alone anyone else. The only Wyatt present retrieves a stack of cups from their usual place in the kitchen and sets it down on the table in front of them, and no one moves to retrieve one.  It’s more than a little unnerving for all of them, how well the newcomers know their way around the bunker. It makes sense that they would, but that doesn’t make it any less disorienting.

“Need me?” the other Wyatt asks, and his Lucy counterpart shakes her head.  

“Go.  We’ll be fine.”

Without any further explanation, alt-Wyatt heads down the hall toward the sleeping quarters.  Lucy can make a guess as to where he’s going. They return their attention to the Lucy before them, who holds up the bottle of vodka to silently offer to pour them a drink, and no one responds.

“Trust me,” she says, finally twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a short swig from it, “you’re all going to need a drink.”

Eventually Flynn complies, taking the bottle from her and pouring himself a generous portion.  Lucy extends a hand to take it from him and does the same (perhaps it’ll be less disorienting to have a chat with herself if she has some alcohol in her).  When no one else shows any sign of helping themselves, the other Lucy slams the book she’s been holding roughly onto the table, the unexpected noise making them all jump.

“Recognize this?”

She draws blank looks for the most part, save Flynn and Lucy, who glance briefly at each other.

“It’s my-” Flynn starts, before catching himself.  “The journal. That you gave me in Sao Paulo.” He doesn’t seem to know which Lucy to address and keeps glancing quickly between the two.  “But that doesn’t make any sense. I wasn’t meant to get this for another 5 years, and definitely not here and now-”

“Perceptive as always, Flynn.”  She gives him a small smile that makes Lucy grit her teeth slightly.  “Let's get the obvious out of the way. I’m not the Lucy that you met in Brazil all those years ago.  And I’m bringing this to you now because you need it _now_ , not later.”

“But we already have it,” Lucy says.  Her other self shakes her head.

“No, you have a _version_ of this journal.”

“But if you don’t go back with this-”

“I thought you’d be further ahead than this,” she interrupts, looking annoyed.  “Fine. I’ll save you some time. This isn’t a loop. Giving you this journal now instead of in 2014 will break nothing because we already gave it to you four years ago.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Connor scoffs.

“What’s your current understanding of everything?”

“What do you mean?” Jiya asks, confused.  “The Lifeboat?”

“The Lifeboat, the Mothership, time travel, timelines, all of it.  Where are you at?”

Connor clears his throat, stepping forward.  “Essentially the same place we’ve always been.  Closed timelike curves let us travel and harness gravity as a slingshot of sorts, allowing us to jump to a specific point earlier in time and space-”

“I’ll stop you there,” she says, cutting him off.  “You aren’t jumping back and forth in one timeline.”

“I….what?”  Connor looks surprised, not the least because this information is coming from Lucy, the in-house historian who has never had any idea how the science actually works.  “Then what are we doing?”

“To sum it up - every decision we make, past and present, changes things in microscopic ways.  There are hundreds of versions of us out there, making their own choices and unable to affect any other timelines, and none of them could interact because time was linear and the moments of divergence were imperceptible.  Until now.”

“Now hang on a minute,” Connor says, crossing his arms, defensive that he’s being addressed by _Lucy,_ of all people, as if he’s new to this “The multiverse theory is just that - a theory.  Unproven hypothesis.”

“Not anymore.  And turns out when we return to the present day after a mission, to a fresh new timeline, it doesn’t mean our old one disappears.  I may have decided to turn left at the crossroads, but somewhere out there, I chose to go right. And I guess you can look at this visit like that - I’m from the version of time where you went right, Lucy, and my life and the events that followed were specific to me, because of that choice.”

Lucy frowns.  “And why are you here?”

She sighs.  “I’m here, Lucy, because this is one of the only timelines left where the team is intact and on a level playing field with Rittenhouse.”

Stunned silence follows, before Jiya says quietly, “Neither of those things is true.  Rufus is dead. We’re down a pilot, and our Lifeboat is ready to fall apart at any time. Rittenhouse is _clearly_ winning.”

The other Lucy’s face softens somewhat.  “I know,” she says, speaking more gently than before.  “And that’s where you come in.”

Jiya perks up somewhat.  “How so?”

“They’ve taken you out of commission in most timelines, Jiya.  Whether dead, stranded, or comatose, they’ve ensured your gifts can’t be used.  They know you’re dangerous to them.”

“Gifts?  Dangerous?”  Jiya laughs sharply.  “What, you mean my visions?  A lot of good those did us.”

“You just don’t understand them fully yet,” Lucy says, growing more and more frustrated but keeping her tone even for her grieving friend’s sake.  “You have a lot more power than you realize, Jiya.”

“Now you sound like Stanley.  I already know all of this - I can time travel without the ship-”

“No, Jiya.”  The alternate Lucy grins.  “You can communicate with other timelines.  You can travel our multiverses without ever leaving yours.  They’re not premonitions from some unseen power, not messages from God.  They’re you, warning _yourself_ to make other choices, to go left instead of right, and other people like you, reaching out to each other, helping where they can.  Your...for lack of a better term, your ‘essence’ is unrestricted by time and space. That’s why you have the visions. That’s why your health improved after that first trip on the Lifeboat.  A piece of you was lost in transit, exists outside of time, connecting you to yourself a million times over.”

Jiya stares at her.  “I...what the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s too hard to explain everything that’s happened in my timeline.  Not with the limited time we have right now.” Alternate Lucy retrieves the book off the table and holds it out to Jiya, who hesitates a moment before she takes it.  “Read this. It explains everything...everything we understand, anyway, which seems to be more than your timeline has yet discovered.”

“How does this help us?” Lucy finally says, breaking her silence to that point, her arms crossed as she leans back against the corner of the couch.

Alt-Lucy turns to her.  “This is how you’ll get him back.  The book, and-” She reaches into one of the pouches on her belt and retrieves a USB stick, which she holds out to Jiya as well. “-this little helping hand.”  

Jiya raises an eyebrow as she turns it in her hands, examining all angles of it.  “What would this be?”

“Shortly before we lost you in our timeline, you developed that.  I think part of you saw what was coming. You built it into our Lifeboat system, but you were smart enough to make a copy.”

“What is it?”

“Our autopilot program.  Aside from doing the obvious as the name suggests, it has one other feature that has proved immensely helpful.”

“And that would be?”

“It seeks out the variables in time - those crossroads, where things diverged.  And it exploits them, like a shortcut. In other words...”

Jiya is the first to understand what she’s implying and her eyes widen.  “It lets you travel to other timelines.”

Alt-Lucy winks at her, grinning.  “Bingo.”

* * *

“You’re a mess, you know that?”

Seated in the corner of his room lost in thought, Wyatt looks up abruptly as he hears his own voice from the doorway.  Alt-Wyatt is smirking, and (not for the first time if he’s being honest) Wyatt has the urge to punch his own face.

“Pardon?”

The other Wyatt enters the room proper, pulling the door shut behind him.  “I said, you’re a mess.”

Wyatt leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, feeling defensive for some reason despite his antagonist being his own damn self. Probably because he isn’t totally wrong.  “Thanks for that insight. If I’d known conversations with myself would be so helpful I’d have tried to reach out years ago.”

Alt-Wyatt seats himself on the edge of the bed and glances around the room.   “Had a friend in here with you?”

He looks up, tracing the other Wyatt’s eye line, and swallows heavily as he sees the nearby pile of women’s toiletries and cosmetics - things left behind by Jessica when she made her last-minute exit.  Prenatal vitamins she’d asked Denise to get her on a supply run. A parenting book still laying face down to hold her place. Everything had happened so quickly, he hadn’t even had a chance to gather up her things yet.  Her presence in the room is still palpable, suffocating, making his chest ache as he remembers her face as they stood in an alleyway only hours previous. _I really do love you, you know._  He wants to believe her.  Desperately wants to. He wants to believe the tears in her eyes and her face full of regret were genuine.  But he doesn’t know what to believe anymore.

He’s lost her again, and it’s starting to get so, _so_ hard to keep fighting.

“That belongs to Jess,” he mumbles, and alt-Wyatt looks back at him quickly.

“Jess was here?”

He snorts.  “Be careful what you wish for.”

“The hell does that mean?”

Wyatt sighs and rubs his hands over his tired face.  “She’s with Rittenhouse. Turns out there are no depraved depths they won’t go to in order to stop us.  They weaponized my wife and child against me.”

“Child?” alt-Wyatt repeats, looking stunned for the first time since he arrived.  “What the hell happened in this reality?”

Wyatt drops his hands, eyes narrowed at the floor, and quickly rattles off the whole story, ending with Jessica’s abrupt news about her pregnancy just as he was starting to suspect she may be a double agent.  “It’s probably a lie. Just like our marriage was.” His eyes are burning again and he quickly wipes them with the back of his hand. _Man up, Wyatt, Jesus Christ..._

“That’s fucking rich.  You get a second shot to treat that woman half as good as she treated you, and you piss it away.”  He can hear the scorn in the other Wyatt’s voice and looks up to see his own eyes glaring back at him.  “I don’t know what went on between you two in this timeline, but I sure as hell know our marriage wasn’t a lie in mine.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That day in Texas under the oak tree, hunting for that damn ring?  That wasn’t a lie. The way she looked at us up at the altar, when we pulled back her veil and she had cried half her mascara off her face, and she laughed because she felt so stupid until she saw we were crying too.”

“That-”

“When we hit our head on that surfing trip to Hawaii, and she spent the rest of the trip laying in the uncomfortable hospital bed next to us, watching shitty B movies on her phone.  Or how about our 27th birthday, when she saved her tips for months just to get us tickets to the NASCAR cup, even though it meant waiting another year for her to start school, because it was a hell of a year after that tour and she knew it.  Was all of that a lie?”

He isn’t sure what to say to that and looks away, uncomfortable.

“Yeah.  That’s what I thought.”

“But she’s Rittenhouse-”

“No, I caught that part.”  The other Wyatt’s demeanor softens a fraction. “All I’m saying is...maybe you started out as a mark for her, or this version of her anyway, but we sure as hell didn’t end up that way.  And if I had any hope of getting Jess back, of getting a second chance with her to do things _right_ , I wouldn’t waste it.”

Wyatt sighs, sitting back in his chair, a tight feeling in his chest.  “She wasn’t a sleeper in my timeline either. At least, I don’t think she was.  But this version...I don’t know who this version is.”

“And she doesn’t know you either, but instead of shooting you and the rest of the team in the head, she tried to sneak away quietly.”

“And then there’s Lucy-”

“Happened here too, huh?”

Wyatt can’t help but feel a sharp pang of jealousy, which he knows is ridiculous - who is he jealous of, himself?  “I’m guessing you managed to make it work?”

“No, I fucked it up just as thoroughly as I’m guessing you did, seeing as Jess’s things are in here instead of Lucy’s.  Let me guess - you tried to have your cake and eat it too and pissed both of them off in the process?”

“Fuck off,” he snaps, suddenly defensive.

The other Wyatt chuckles, shaking his head.  “Who are you even fighting with, man? Everything pisses you off, you have a hair trigger - not that we didn’t always, but I grew out of it by this point, not sure why you haven’t.”

Wyatt opens his mouth to offer a snide retort, then pauses.  Because he’s right. Who was he fighting with? Was he so angry at everything that he could make even himself a target?

Well, he’d always known that.  There’d always been that little voice in the back of his mind, at first his father’s when he was young, telling him how shit he was at everything, how no one could love him, and despite his best efforts, Grandpa Sherwin had never quite managed to silence it.  As he’d grown, as he’d pulled away from his old man’s influence and his grandfather passed away, the voice had steadily become his own. Do better. Be better. You didn’t deserve to live over all the rest of those guys. You’re the reason Jess died. No wonder everyone leaves you, one way or another.  Not even your own mother wanted you.

He’s been fighting with and hating himself for so long it became his default.

“How?” he finally asks, his voice quiet, and alt-Wyatt cocks his head to the side the curiously.

“What do you mean, how?”

“How’d you grow out of it?”  He meets his own eyes and for the first time truly examines them.  They’re a cold blue, mirthless and hardened. Is this what others see every time they look at him?  A wall that nothing can get through, keeping him at an arm's length from the world?

But then the other Wyatt’s face softens, and he sighs.  “I pushed everyone away, that’s how. Even when people started dying.  I just couldn’t stop, and before long it was just me and Luce left, and now she can’t stand being around me and all I have is regrets to keep me company.  And trust me, I’ve tried to repair things between us. She’s all I have left in the world. But eventually people give up on you. They can only try for so long before it’s over.  Too little too late.” He looks down at his calloused, scarred hands, his face weary. “She’s my partner because of circumstance. But if we won this war tomorrow, I think she’d walk away and never look back.  And honestly, I wouldn’t blame her.”

Wyatt looks away, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.  He feels like he’s looking in a mirror, and he doesn’t like what he sees.

“How’d you fuck it up with Lucy?”

“If I had to guess what one thing caused it...I think she outgrew me.”

“How so?”

“The more she changed, the more I pushed back.  We started fighting more and eventually it was every damn day.  I couldn’t reconcile the Lucy that was in front of me with the one in my head.  She was different, while I was busy staying the same, and so of course the same issues started to crop up, same as with Jess.  Because the problem was never them - not Jess, not Lucy.” Alt-Wyatt looks at him and taps his temple with a finger. “This was the problem.  I was so busy blaming the world for everything wrong in my life and trying to figure out what I could change to make things better - if only Jess was alive again, if only Lucy stayed the same woman I fell for, if only I could save the day and be the hero, I’d be worth something - and I never stopped to think maybe if I fixed something in myself, things wouldn’t be so hard to begin with.”

“This isn’t exactly the pep talk I was hoping for,” Wyatt says, more to himself than...well, himself.  “Sounds like no matter what I do, I end up alone.”

“That’s my point, man.”  His alternate self gives him a gentle nudge in the ankle with the toe of his boot.  “You’re so afraid of ending up alone, you latch onto people, desperate to keep them, desperate for love, and all it does is push them away.  And that’s the thing I never understood with Lucy, not until it was too late. I love her, of course I do, she’s my family - same as Rufus and Jiya were, same as this whole damn team, really.  But I think I was _in_ love with Lucy because she’s who I wanted to be - a strong leader, passionate about _something_ and focused on making the world a better place, a fierce sense of morality, the one person no one can hate - and I thought if I just held on to her tight enough, I’d become that too.  Instead, I lost it all again. I didn’t love her for who she was. I loved the _idea_ of her.  I wanted her to stay in a box and not change, not grow, because it made me happy and needed, and...no one can live like that.  Jess couldn’t, and Lucy couldn’t either.”

Wyatt looks down at the floor, biting back the nasty retort that’s fighting to get out.  His defense mechanism is kicking into high gear again, but for once, hell possibly the first time ever, he sees it for what it is.

“So where do I go from here?” he asks quietly, and his other self gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“I don’t know, bud.  Our lives went a lot differently after we first stepped off that Lifeboat into the past.  Only you can decide what you need to do in order to fix things. But I think at least one thing is universal, for you, for me, for however many versions of us are out there.”

“Which is?”

“Stop beating yourself up for everything you’re not.  Trust people. Trust that they care about you, and even if they pull away, let them breathe.  Cause the alternative obviously isn’t working.”

His smile is mirthless.  “I think it’s too late for that.”

“To get them back?  Maybe. But you don’t know unless you try.”  Alt-Wyatt stands, checking the clip of the pistol on his hip, a fidget more than anything that he recognizes because of his own annoying tendency to do the same.  “Maybe you blew your shot at a life with Lucy, but that doesn’t mean you can’t live a life she’s part of, even if just as a friend. All it takes is trying. Accept who she is now, be selfless, supportive, be everything dad wasn’t.  Do the right thing, even if it’s hard, even if it hurts, even if it isn’t what _you_ want.”

Wyatt swallows and nods, eyes downcast.

“You’ve got a kid on the way, right?  If you need something to keep you on track, just focus on that baby.  On what kind of world you want them to grow up in. What you want them to think of when they think about their dad.  Cause I sure as hell know you don’t want to repeat dad’s mistakes.” They meet eyes once more and the alternate Wyatt nods, finally allowing a small smile.  “You’re not a lost cause, even if you tell yourself that. You just need to _try_.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, turning and heading out the door without glancing back, and Wyatt stares blankly around his room in the ensuing silence, the other man’s words echoing in his head as he gets to his feet and follows.

* * *

They’re still mid-discussion when everything comes grinding to a halt, as the alternate version of Wyatt goes silent mid-sentence, grimacing in pain and clutching his head.  His Lucy immediately jumps to her feet and ushers him quickly toward their Lifeboat, trying to explain over her shoulder what exactly is going on even as she rushes away from them.  “Traversing your own timelines to somewhere you already exist has consequences. You can share space with yourself temporarily, but you eventually start to experience a breakdown in your cellular structures, a sort of necroptosis that progresses unimpeded until you returned to a safe timeline.”

“What happens if you don’t?” Jiya asks as she helps alternate Lucy carry her Wyatt up the stairs into the Lifeboat.

“It’s the universe’s way of balancing itself out again,” alternate Lucy says, rushing to strap her Wyatt in.  “Remove the virus that doesn’t belong. And right now that virus is Wyatt. I’m likely not far behind and we need to be gone before that happens or we aren’t making it home.”  Once she finishes with his belts, she moves onto her own, and once fully strapped in, turns her chair to face them as the door cycles shut. “Good luck.”

The dust has barely settled from the Lifeboat departing before Lucy turns to Jiya and asks, “Can I see that journal?”

Jiya looks down at it, having forgotten she was holding it still, and nods, quickly passing it off to Lucy.  “I need to look at what exactly is on this USB drive anyway. Maybe meet up in the morning to discuss anything we find out?”

Lucy nods and heads back toward her bedroom, already flipping the book open to read it.  She’d developed the bad habit of reading while walking at university, able to focus on the words while her blurred peripheral vision let her know if she was going to bump into anything or anyone.  She manages to make it to her room without any incident and glances up from the book just long enough to pull the door open.

She stops short as she steps into the bedroom.  The beds are separated, same as before they’d left for Chinatown, but the room is still littered with signs of Rufus’s presence.  Brainteaser puzzles on the shelves, scattered papers covered in lines of code, and a paperback sci-fi novel bookmarked and laying on a night table at the head of the bed.  It was as if he’d walk in any moment, grin at her as he retrieves something from the mess on that half of the room.

Lucy sinks onto the bed opposite Jiya’s, the reinvigorated feeling of hope she’d gotten from her alternate self’s visit dissipating all at once.  She sighs and flips the book open, skimming through pages. She isn’t sure how long she’s been reading when she finally looks up, brow furrowed. Something seems off.

She gets to her feet and heads down the hall toward Flynn’s room.  She has no idea where he’d ended up after she’d departed the group, but seeing as 95% of the time he was alone in his room, it was a safe bet he would be there now.  Knocking twice, she hears movement inside and waits patiently until the door opens slightly and Flynn peers out.

“Lucy?”  He sounds tired as he says it, and it occurs to her only then that he may have been resting.  There hadn’t been much of any downtime between their arrival home from San Francisco and the visit from her doppelganger.  She glances down at her watch and cringes as she sees the time. Much later than she’d initially thought. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d gotten lost in her research.

“Did I wake you?”  She feels stupid even as she asks it; the answer is obvious.

He smiles and shakes his head, though she can tell he’s stifling a yawn as he nods for her to come in.  She closes the door behind her, glancing down at the bed; the sheets have that telltale rumpled look to them, and when she sits down on the edge, she can feel the blankets are still warm from where he was laying.

“Liar,” she murmurs, smiling slightly.  Flynn shrugs, seating himself next to her rather than taking his usual spot in the armchair in the corner.

“What is it?”

“I don’t have a copy of the original journal anymore.  Somewhere between Denise arresting you and Rittenhouse kidnapping me, it disappeared.  But you read it almost daily for years, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Flynn says, his voice hesitant as he doesn’t know where she’s going with this.  “I wouldn’t say I have it word-for-word memorized, but I recall most of the content.”

“Have a look at this.”  She hands him the new journal and he flips it open randomly to the middle, rests it in his lap and turns pages slowly with his good hand as he skims the writing

“Wait.”  He looks up at her.  “This doesn’t match.”

“So it isn’t just me.”  Lucy reaches out and flips the pages without taking the book back, and after a few seconds finds the page she’s looking for.  “Read this.” She watches his expression as he complies, his eyebrows eventually raising as he reaches the end of the page.

He’s quiet a moment as he finishes reading, not looking at Lucy.  Then he closes the book and hands it back to her. “That never happened.”

“I know.  But even setting aside the possibility that at some point in the future we could have a reason to go to the Titanic, I read further and...none of it makes sense.  So much of it just…” She sighs, tossing the book onto the bed next to her. “It doesn’t sound like something I’d write.”

“Neither did parts of the journal that I gave you,” Flynn points out, finally looking her way.  “Frankly, some of it sounded unhinged.”

“In what way?”

Flynn squints up at the ceiling, trying to recall the details.  “Well, knowing you as I do now, it did mirror your change from mild-mannered teacher to the woman you are now, but...the end of it was different.  Darker. You never gave any details as to why the sudden switch of tone and tactics, but the things you talked about happening in the future...I think you’d be horrified if you read it now.”  He looks down at her again. “Unfortunately not an option, but maybe that’s a blessing in disguise.”

“So why the discrepancy?” she mumbles, more to herself than to Flynn, and she slides back on the bed to rest her back against the wall.  “What do we believe? _Who_ do we believe?  This version of me who showed up in the nick of time with exactly what we needed?  Or whatever version of me tracked you down in Brazil and started this whole thing?”

“If we take everything we’ve learned at face value, the version of you we just spoke with came from a different timeline, but the version of you I first met is you, this you, five years from now.  I know which I’m more inclined to trust.”

“That’s the thing that worries me, Flynn.”  She meets his eyes. “We know this technology exists now.  So how do we know the woman you first met was really me? From this timeline?”

The implication of her words hits him hard.  He’d believed one thing to be true since he’d left that bar in Brazil - that the woman he’d met in that bar would one day become the woman he cares about now - and he looks troubled, as if his entire worldview just went up in flames.  After a minute, he nods. “You’re right.”

Lucy rests her head against the bunker wall as she stares off into the distance.  Then she growls in frustration and runs her hands through her hair.

“What the hell is going on?”

* * *

The bunker is quiet in the darkness of the evening, as Wyatt sets down his pen, staring at the sheet of paper in front of him.  It isn’t perfect, but it’ll have to do.

He gets to his feet and grabs his bag, shoving things into it quickly.  His wallet, his phone, things he never takes on missions - things that he usually has no use for.  But this isn’t going to be the usual trip.

He slides his shoulder rig on and holsters his pistol, then slips his jacket on over the whole thing.  It’s just another costume nowadays, but staring at himself in the mirror, he looks downright normal. Doesn’t feel it, not in the least, but if nothing else, he looks the part.  It would save him valuable time.

He passes Flynn’s room on his way to the kitchen and hears quiet voices murmuring inside.  He can’t hear anything, not really, but he knows deep down that the lighter of the voices is Lucy’s.  Her nights in Flynn’s room hadn’t gone unnoticed by him, even if the rest of them still hadn’t figured it out.  She always started out on the couch, but somehow never reappeared on it. Most of them assumed she’d taken to getting up at the crack of dawn, but Wyatt, having always been an early riser, knows that isn’t the actual truth.  Maybe she and Flynn weren’t actually sleeping together, not in that sense of the word, but she sure as hell was waking up in Flynn’s bed almost every day.

His face burns at that thought and he considers knocking for a moment, then shakes his head, the words of his alternate self still echoing in his head.   _Do the right thing, even if it’s hard, even if it hurts, even if it isn’t what you want._  Picking yet another fight with Flynn in front of Lucy wouldn’t do any good except for him to let off some steam, and it would only make things worse with her.  It’s the last thing she needs to deal with right now. No, there’s only one way to fix things between them.

Confirming his suspicions, he sees the couch empty as he passes through the kitchen, and he takes a deep breath and keeps his eyes forward as he passes by, heading for the Lifeboat.  The door is still open from when Jiya was working in it earlier that night, skipping her dinner so she could plug away at installing a new control panel and uploading the autopilot program alt-Lucy had given her.  He just hoped she’d worked out the kinks.

He shoves his bag into the usual storage compartment on the floor and then sits, strapping himself into the chair nearest to the controls.  A touch screen now sits next to the flight controls, dark with the power currently off, and as soon as powers on the Lifeboat, the screen springs to life in a flurry of fast-moving text.

After a moment, it settles on one screen, several fields prompting him for information about the intended journey.  He fills them all in as best he can, before coming to the final one that asks for the date.

October 3, 2016.  Ground zero.

As the system detects him attempting to return to a date in which he existed, another box appears.  

_Overlap detected.  Access divergent point?_

_Y / N_

He hits yes, and another prompt appears.

_Date for post-divergence destination: ___________

He glances at his watch briefly to confirm the date, then keys it in and hits accept.  The machine flares to life at once, pulling him back against the seat as it builds momentum.

“Guess there’s no place like home,” he mutters, closing his eyes as the jump initiates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will probably be updating this one a little slower than the upload schedule I had for B&B (roughly one chapter a week so I could finish by Dec 20). But hopefully most chapters will be long enough to make the wait feel worth it. :) Thank you for the kind comments, appreciate the hell outta them!


	3. Chapter 3

“Amy, NOW!”

She springs into action immediately, covering her head as she runs toward the Lifeboat.  She can see the redhead turning to aim the gun her way and has a moment of panic before Wyatt, true to his word, fires several shots and forces their assailant to take cover.  It gives Amy enough time to scramble inside the ship unimpeded, and she slides into a chair near the far wall as Wyatt had instructed, searching frantically for the control panel he’d mentioned.

Finally, she spots it, filled with lines of text she couldn’t begin to understand, but at the bottom, as he said, she sees it - _Copy Forward Return Coordinates_.  She presses it, and a new window appears, prompting her to activate the jump.

“Wyatt, I got it!” she shouts over her shoulder, and she can hear his staggered footsteps as he hurries toward the Lifeboat fast as he can manage (considering his still-injured leg), and hears him firing his gun rapidly at the other woman.  Amy turns and slips out of the seat, crouching low so she can crawl back to the entrance without catching any of the bullets that are still ricocheting everywhere, and holds her hand out the door for Wyatt to grab. Both of them struggle, as she attempts to hoist his heavier frame into the ship while he attempts to climb in using only the strength of one leg.

And then she flinches as warm blood spatters across her face.

Wyatt looks confused first, and for a moment simply locks eyes with Amy, brow furrowed. He reaches a shaky hand to his neck, to the gash that has just appeared, just as it begins to spill over with blood, and he slumps against the edge of the Lifeboat door, coughing, his other hand slipping out of her grip despite her attempts to hang on.  A steady stream of blood seeps through the gaps between his fingers, his efforts clearly doing nothing to stem the tide. A bullet has torn through the side of his neck, likely severed major arteries if Amy had to guess, and if the blood loss didn't get him first, then drowning in it would finish the job.

Despite this, Amy reaches desperately for his arm. “Wyatt!  Get in, please!”

He shakes his head, smiling as he gives her a gentle but firm push back, and she stumbles, falls against one of the empty seats.  She looks back at him, confused, and he gives her a nod - then quickly keys a sequence into the keypad with his bloodied fingers, and takes a step back.  

“No!”  She scrambles to reach for him again, but the door slides closed quickly, nearly taking her arm off, and she has no idea how to get it open again. There's an identical keypad on this side of the door, but enough numbers that she doesn’t have a hope in hell of getting it right on the first, second, or even thirtieth try.

She presses an ear to the door, listening for any noise outside the ship. The gunshots have gone abruptly silent, and she hears the faint sound of something heavy tumbling to the ground. A few seconds later a single shot follows. Amy's hands fly to her mouth, her stomach suddenly reeling as she struggles not to cry in sheer terror, horror, and everything in between.  She’s never been in any situation even remotely resembling this one, but she’s seen enough action movies to recognize what is no doubt a final execution shot, finishing the job.

Once she can breathe again and has staved off her building panic, she forces herself to turn and slips into the chair against the furthest wall once more.  The touchscreen is still flashing, waiting for her to activate the jump. The seatbelts take a bit of fumbling to get fastened, but she figures it out eventually, and then lets her head drop back against the headrest, again resisting the urge to vomit.  She’s gotta be dreaming. None of this makes sense, none of this can possibly be real. Earlier that day she’d been putting groceries away, now she was getting ready to _travel through time_ , and the man who got her into this mess was just murdered in cold blood only a few feet away.

Still lost in her own thoughts, she’s pulled out of it as she hears the sound of the external keypad beeping, followed by a short error tone indicating the wrong code was entered.  She’s almost positive it isn’t Wyatt on the other side of that door.

Before her assailant has a chance to figure out the correct number sequence, Amy presses a finger to the touchscreen.  Immediately everything vibrates, and she tightly grips the shoulder straps of the harness, terrified. There’s one final error tone outside just as the vibration becomes almost unbearable, and then she has a feeling of brief weightlessness before she’s jerked sharply to the side. Though she can’t see anything outside the ship and has no perception of what the hell is currently going on, she can somehow feel the world spinning, sharp changes in momentum jerking her in the seat so roughly the belt strains against her.  She feels herself on the cusp of blacking out and fights it.

And then at once it ceases with a final jerk.  A second too late, however, as Amy feels herself reeling, her rattled mind and rapidly beating heart overwhelming all her senses, and she slumps over in the chair, unconscious.

* * *

_12 Hours Previous_

Jiya’s morning routine has always been the same.

07:00 - Crawl out of bed and attempt to wake up in the shower

07:30 - Get out of shower when hot water runs out, throw on whatever clothes are clean

07:45 - Inject enough coffee into her veins to feel human (possibly a slight exaggeration)

08:00 - Have 1-4 pieces of peanut butter toast (depends on how well she slept), with a sliced banana on top if they got lucky enough that week to have fresh produce in the supply order

08:15 - Grab a chair next to Rufus at the command console and get to work on Lifeboat upgrades and diagnostics

She has it down to a science, much like most of her life, ever the perpetual overachiever.  

Or, she usually would, on any other day but today.

Instead, she simply lays in bed, wrapped tightly in her duvet, and stares at the clock on the night table opposite, watching the minutes go by.  Before long, 7:00 turns into 7:30, and that turns into 8:00, and by the time 8:30 hits she debates whether she should just commit to staying in bed all day.

Because the love of her life is gone, and she feels lost without him.

Oh sure, alt-Lucy and alt-Wyatt had given them some hope, and for the evening after their visit that had kept her going, plugging away at the autopilot system to get it up and running.  She’d not had a chance to do any diagnostics or tests, however, as once she had finished installing the panel and had everything up and running, she let out a shout of triumph and immediately turned to tell Rufus as usual...and then remembered.  

Every time she slows down, every time she closes her eyes, every time she has a moment to think, all she sees is his face.  His eyes desperate as he mouthed “I love you” - or tried to, but only made it halfway. And god, she wishes she’d said it too.  Of course, she’d hoped he would pull through somehow and so all she did was beg him to hang on, but she wishes she’d spent that time holding him and telling him how much she loved him, how much he meant to her.  Instead, she’d shaken him after his eyes closed, disoriented from her shock, and when Wyatt finally put a hand to her shoulder and murmured, “He’s gone”, she’d collapsed forward against Rufus’s chest, her sobs turning into a keening wail. Wyatt quickly slipped around Rufus’s prone form to wrap her in a hug, and she’d cried against Wyatt’s shoulder while clutching Rufus’s hand for god knows how long, until Lucy and Flynn appeared once more, neither of them looking much better, and Lucy looking especially worse with her split lip and bruised face.  All of them were moving on autopilot at that point, and it showed on all of their faces. Wyatt and Flynn’s faces were unreadable as they each lifted one of Rufus’s arms, looking for all intents and purposes like they were just hauling their drunk friend home.

She and the still-injured Flynn had watched as Lucy and Wyatt dug a shallow grave on the outskirts of town.  Rufus looked like he was sleeping. As they began the process of covering him over once more with dirt, she turned and put her face against Flynn’s chest, eyes shut as she gripped his vest tightly, and he simply held her in silence, stroking her hair with his good hand and rocking her gently back and forth.  Lucy had a hand on her arm the whole ride home, but she felt numb, like she was dreaming. It was only once she saw Connor’s face filled with glee to see her that it finally washed over her in a cold wave - the realization that she’d never see Rufus again, and wouldn’t even have a grave she could visit. He was gone, in every sense of the word.  As if he’d never existed at all.

Later that same evening, once Connor had left her alone to get some rest, she’d rummaged through their room in search of one of Rufus’s hoodies to wrap herself up in, and that’s when she found it.  It fell from the middle of a pile of his folded clothes and clattered to the floor, and she’d stared at it, abruptly feeling as if she’d just been punched in the stomach.

A small green ring box.

Kneeling down, she’d opened it to find a gold band with a modest-sized emerald in the middle, a single small diamond flanking it on each side.  It was absolutely beautiful, and made her heartache only worse. She was still staring at it while seated on the bed an hour later when it occurred to her that he would have had to buy the ring prior to them moving into the bunker.  They’d barely been dating a year at that point, and already he’d decided he wanted to marry her. That was enough to set her off again, crying into her pillow until they’d heard the commotion out in the Lifeboat hangar, and she’d quickly dried her eyes and joined them, the ring box left beneath her pillow, forgotten for the moment.

Jiya shakes off the memory and rolls over in bed, reaches under her pillow to retrieve the box once more and opens it again.  This time she takes the ring out and slips it onto her finger, swallowing as she does so - it fits perfectly.

She jumps at a sudden urgent knock on her door, and she gets up to let them in.  Lucy is on the other side and visibly relaxes as she sees Jiya. “Oh thank god, you’re still here.”

“Still here?” she repeats, confused.  “Where would I be?”

Lucy seems to notice the ring on her finger then, looking briefly confused, but ignores it as she clearly has higher priorities at that moment.  “The Lifeboat is gone. We thought....maybe you’d-”

Lucy doesn’t have to finish.  She can fill in the blank. They thought she’d somehow gone back for Rufus.

But then the rest of Lucy’s words sink in.  “Wait, the Lifeboat is gone? Where? Who took it?”  She doesn’t wait for a response. Her eyes widen as she realizes she’s the only pilot left in the bunker, and what had to happen for someone to move the ship without her.  “Oh shit. No, no, not good, it hasn’t been tested.” She pushes past Lucy and runs toward the command console, sees the launchpad is empty, and practically throws herself into one of the chairs.  Her hands fly over the keyboard as she attempts to track the Lifeboat’s location.

_ERROR - UNABLE TO DETECT_

“What the hell do you mean ‘unable to detect’?” she growls at the computer.  She types a few more commands in. “Tell me what I need to know, you son of a-”

_LAST RECORDED LOCATION:_

_SAN FRANCISCO, 03 OCTOBER 2016_

She sits back in her chair, stunned, staring at the flashing text before her.  2016 was the year of their first trip in the Lifeboat, the start of this whole nightmare.  But if the system wasn’t able to track the Lifeboat back to that point _now_ , it could only mean that the ship was lost.  And worse than that, she had no way of knowing if her autopilot program had worked, or if it had somehow just imploded, been lost in time, popped into existence a galaxy over - some sort of horrible fate that would account for why it was lost and unaccounted for.

She can hear feet on the stairs to her left, and looks up as Lucy slips into the seat next to her.

“It’s gone,” Jiya tells her quietly, still stunned, and it’s Lucy’s turn to look confused.

“How is that possible?  Where did it go?”

“I have no idea.  The last tracked location was 2016, and then nothing.”

“2016?  As in…”

“Yeah.  The night of the Hindenburg.”

Flynn enters at that moment, striding quickly through the kitchen toward them as he ends a phone call, and Connor follows close behind, still mid-yawn.  “I was able to get Denise at home,” Flynn calls to the two women. “She has no idea who took the ship out, says she didn’t authorize anything.”

“Wait.”  Lucy glances around the group.  “Where is Wyatt?”

All of them look around and it seems to occur to them only then that Wyatt is absent.  Lucy jumps to her feet immediately, half-jogging in the direction of the sleeping quarters, and Flynn trails after her as she makes her way around the corner to Wyatt’s room.  The door is closed, and she knocks, getting no answer. “Wyatt?” she calls, and when there’s no response to that either, she tugs the door open.

His room is clean, beds made (both now back against opposite walls), all surfaces tidy.  Too tidy, in fact. She can see his personal effects are missing from their usual spots, including his holster and sidearm.  In fact, the only thing left of Wyatt’s are a few articles of clothing.

Flynn steps in behind her and sees the state of the room as well, and comes to the same conclusion as Lucy.  “That goddamn _idiot_.”

Part of her agrees.  Part of her wants him to come back so she can yell at him, pound her fists against his chest until her anger subsides.  Because right on the tail end of admitting he loves her, he’s now run off alone, possibly forever, making him one more person she’s lost in her life, and to make matters worse, he did said running off in their only time machine, meaning if anything happens to him while he’s god-knows-where, they are well and truly screwed.

But the other part of her is intensely worried for him and feels if he were to return that minute, she’d be more likely to wrap him in a hug first.

Seeming to sense her inner turmoil, Flynn rests a hand on her shoulder and squeezes briefly.  “All we can do is wait and see, Lucy. It’s out of our hands now.”

* * *

A few hours later Jiya pushes back from her keyboard and sighs heavily.  She’s been trying to focus on software upgrades (to be installed later...hopefully) to kill time, but has made exactly zero progress with it to that point.  She can’t stop replaying the conversation with alt-Lucy in her head, mulling over her words and trying to suss out what exactly she meant.

“How are things going?”  

She turns to see Connor smiling warmly up at her from the base of the stairs, and she responds by leaning forward and resting her forehead on the desk with a heavy sigh.  “Not great.”

“Sounds like it’s time for a break.” Connor nods for her to follow. “Come on, I'll make you some breakfast.”

Connor isn’t exactly known for his cooking skills (after years of not having to touch his billionaire kitchen) and so Jiya hesitates a moment, then shrugs to herself, figures he’s just trying to be useful and/or take care of her, and follows him.  He points at one of the kitchen tables and Jiya takes a seat, rubbing her hands against her tired eyes.

“What are you working on?” he asks, retrieving a large mixing bowl and a box of pancake mix from the shelf.

“Stabilization protocol that will partner with the new autopilot software.  Hopefully make the ride a bit smoother. Not that I can actually test how it pairs with the new software, thanks to Wyatt.”  She crosses her arms and leans back in her chair, scowling. “That idiot better bring my ship back soon or there will be hell to pay. And if he’s lying dead in a ditch somewhere, I’m going to _kill him._ ”

Connor smiles.  “Wyatt’s always made it out of tight spots, I’m sure this time will be no different.  And we have no idea where he went, either. For all we know, he’s gone back to find Rufus somehow.”

There it is again.  She knows Connor is just trying to give her a shred of hope and cheer her up, but all it does is flood her mind once more with grief, and she blinks as she tries desperately to hold back the tears burning at the back of her eyes.  “Yeah,” she finally says weakly. “Maybe.”

A few minutes later, Connor sets a small stack of pancakes before her, perfectly made to her utter surprise, and follows it quickly with a bottle of syrup.  He’d even thrown a handful of chocolate chips in for her, she notices, and smiles. She douses them liberally with syrup and cuts a small wedge, and her eyes widen slightly as chews.  “Connor, these are actually really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he says, chuckling.  “I wasn’t always a useless rich wanker. My mother raised my sister and I on her own, so I quite often cooked meals when mum worked late.  Nothing particularly exciting, but I became quite good at the staples.”

“You have a sister?”  It occurs to her how little she actually knows about Connor’s life - he’d always had a slight air of mystique about him, the untouchable and intimidating billionaire boss.  Now that he’d joined the rest of them near the poverty line, he seemed much more human to her, something she’d taken for granted to that point.

“Oh yes, a younger sister.  Katherine.” He sits back in his chair, smiling to himself.  “I haven’t spoken to her in a few years - didn’t want Rittenhouse to turn their sights on her, and it’s not particularly well known that she exists, especially as she now goes by her married name.  She’s an artist, owns a gallery in London. Helped me with a few designs for Mason Industries, in fact - the car prototype, for one. She had the aesthetic vision, I knew the mechanics. We were an excellent team for a while.”

“Until you cut her out,” Jiya finishes for him, and he nods, his smile faltering.

“She didn’t understand why.  Probably still doesn’t. I imagine she thinks I went off the deep end, got hooked on drugs or the like.”

“I know what you mean.”  She takes her final bite of pancakes and then pushes the plate away.  “Not that I’ve seen my family in a few years regardless of Rittenhouse - most of them moved back to Lebanon - but I used to at least call once a week.  Now I think it’s been...god, I don’t know. Six months probably, since I last talked to any of them.”

“I suppose hindsight is 20/20.  If I’d known how things would turn out, I’d have slammed the door in Cahill’s face immediately.  No amount of funding has been worth any of this.”

“There’s no way you could have known how this would all turn out, Connor.  The company was losing investors and they offered you a lifeline. Rittenhouse is great at making their offer sound perfect with no strings attached, until you finally see the strings above you and realize it’s too late.”

“But think of all the things that could have been avoided had I just said no.  The time machines would never have been invented, Lucy’s sister would still be here, Garcia’s family would have lived, and...Rufus.”  He sighs heavily. This had clearly been weighing on him for some time, another thing Jiya had taken for granted. “Maybe I’d have lost the company anyway, but I think I’d prefer that to any of this.”

“You said it yourself.  Hindsight is 20/20.” She shrugs.  “Not to mention Rittenhouse was already out there, whether or not we were involved.  Who’s to say they wouldn’t have found someone to build the machines anyway? At least this way, there’s _someone_ fighting back.”

He nods, conceding her point.  “I suppose you’re right. I just wish there hadn’t been so many people caught in the crossfire of my mistakes.”

“What’s that cliche saying?  ‘It doesn’t matter if you fall down, it’s whether you get back up’?  I’d say that’s pretty apt.”

He smiles again.  “Thank you Jiya. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Probably lean on Rufus, seeing as he’d still be here, but you get last year’s model instead.”  The harsh words are out before she can stop them, and she immediately looks away, crossing her arms once more.  Connor’s brow furrows.

“Is that what you think?  That you’re just an understudy for Rufus?”

She shrugs.  “He’s the savant.  I’m just a Lebanese nerd who got lucky.”

“No, Jiya.”  He leans over slightly to catch her eye, smiling warmly, and she can see the affection in his gaze as she hesitantly looks back at him.  “I sought both of you out. Your test scores were no less impressive than his. In fact, I’d say as of late you’re completely on par with each other; your piloting has improved in such a short period of time and many of the more useful software improvements we’ve made have been entirely your work.  Not to mention you survived three bloody years trapped in the past with no historian or soldier at your side, and still found a way to get the ship back to us and let us know you were okay. You’re an understudy to no one. If anything, I’m in awe of you.”

It doesn’t show on her face, but his words have eased a weight she’s been carrying - a fear that she’d never live up to Rufus’s brilliance, and because of it, would have no chance of ever finding a way to get him back, much less stop Rittenhouse.

“Can I ask you something?” Jiya says quietly after a moment.  Connor nods for her to continue. “What do you think my visions are?”

“How do you mean?  The other Lucy-”

“Forget what she said.  On a purely scientific level, considering everything you discovered in the early days of the Mothership before I’d joined the project, what would you say they are?”

Connor is silent as he considers the question, one finger idly tapping the table as the gears in his head turn.  It's moments like this that Jiya can most clearly see the brilliant engineer Connor used to be, the one he's trying to be once more.  “Ignoring everything we’ve just been told...my assumption was always that it was severe schizophrenia. I never did figure out what caused it, but after the first pilot returned only to have a brain aneurysm a few days later, and then Stanley returned utterly off his rocker and babbling about premonitions and speaking to people in his mind, I had Anthony go back to the drawing board and make sure we had the math 100% correct before we sent the ship out again.”

“Who was the next pilot after them?”

“Anthony insisted on testing it thoroughly himself before letting anyone else take it out,” Connor says, his mouth set in a thin line. “Without my knowledge, of course, as he knew I’d have put a pin in that plan the moment I heard it - and when everything appeared to be fine, we introduced our next pilot in line.  Which happened to be Emma Whitmore.”

“Ah.”  Of course Emma came next, only after it was proven safe.  Of course she couldn’t have been the next Stanley, babbling away locked in a mental hospital rather than becoming an eternal pain in their asses.   _Of course_.

“After there were no further issues, we thought that Anthony had worked out all the kinks.  Of course, what we never accounted for is that someone would attempt to ride in the ship before we factored in the extra body.  All of the science was predicated on the assumption that the ships would never carry more people than the seats allowed for, that passengers would be fixed in place and accounted for in all calculations.  But then, the science was also predicated on the assumption that we weren’t at the behest of an evil cult pulling our puppet strings, so naturally we didn’t account for any and all scenarios we might encounter, such as fleeing for one’s life.”

“Do you still think it’s schizophrenia?”

“If you’d asked me a few months ago, perhaps.  But too much has happened since then. All of your premonitions about Rufus came true, in some way, shape, or form, and then alternate versions of Lucy and Wyatt appeared - something I thought was quite impossible - and told us there might be something to your visions, more than just seeing the future.  And then learning other historical figures may have experienced the same phenomenon - Harriet Tubman, Joan of Arc, people who never would have time traveled - I truly don’t know what to believe anymore. This clearly goes beyond science, or at least what our current knowledge of physics allows us to understand.”

“Lucy said something to me on a mission a few weeks back.  At the time I just took it as her trying to cheer me up, but now I’m not so sure.  She asked me, ‘Did you ever think that maybe you’re seeing these things so that you can save Rufus?’  After we lost him, I figured there was no way that could be true, but then the other Lucy told me that my visions were the key to saving him, that I’m warning myself from other timelines, other realities.  But if that is actually all true...how do I do it?” She sighs, yet again feeling helpless. “I doubt Lucy wrote a detailed ‘how-to’ in that journal, and I’ve already traversed every moment in time I could think of while looking for him and found nothing.  So what the hell am I meant to do?”

“A good question.  And unfortunately one I can’t help with.”  Both of them are silent as he mulls it over, and just as Jiya is about to excuse herself to track down Lucy (and therefore the damn journal), Connor perks up.  “But I bet I know who could help.”

“Oh?”

“I think it might be time for us to indulge in another conversation with Mr. Fisher.  If anyone will be able to help you figure it out, it’ll likely be the man that has spent years dealing with these visions and learning how to utilize them.”

“Stanley?” Jiya says, eyebrow raised.  “Connor, you said it yourself, he’s insane-”

“Perhaps - he clearly didn’t return from that trip as the same man who left - but we now know at least parts of his babbling are true.  None of us have experienced the same phenomena that you two share. Even if only 10% of what he says is useful, that’s still 10% we wouldn’t have had otherwise.”

Jiya considers it, then shrugs.  “What the hell, we’ve got nothing to lose at this point.”

* * *

 Being that all the bunker could do in Wyatt’s absence was wait, Lucy and Flynn had attempted to return back to their discussion of the current journal and how it differed from Flynn’s earlier version of it.  Having been up most of the night already doing so (in addition to everything that had happened in Chinatown the evening before, as well as their visit from Lucy and Wyatt’s alternate selves), by mid-morning Lucy was starting to drift off mid-discussion, her head nodding as she struggled to stay awake, at one point even ending up resting her forehead against Flynn’s arm with her eyes closed.  When it happened a third time, Flynn finally told her to lay down and get some rest, and she was so exhausted she complied without argument. He’d laid the ratty wool blanket over her, smiling as she snored softly, and then seated himself in the corner to continue reading the journal alone.

_I sat wrapped in a blanket, lost in thought, and then Flynn kissed me.  And finally the pain I’ve felt for so long dissipated. So I kissed him back...again.  And again. It was just the right time and place. And it wasn’t because of the cold. Whether we admit it or not - we needed each other that night.  I could see it in the way Flynn looked at me. I felt it in the way he took me in his arms, the same arms I used to run from - but not anymore. That night, I felt safe, and protected, and loved._

He’d re-read the passage several times over the past hour, and was no less confused now than when he’d first read it.  It painted a romantic picture of the life they could have awaiting them in the future, but it was the one entry in the journal that most strongly made him believe it was fake.  He’d heard Wyatt’s confession the night before, and though he’d missed Lucy’s response, her reaction to Wyatt’s Lifeboat hijacking painted a fairly clear picture for him. It would be unreasonable to expect her to have moved on from her feelings for Wyatt that quickly, but when she’d asked him in 1888 “Why are you here?”, he’d finally realized she had absolutely no idea how he felt about her.

He closes the book in his lap and looks over at Lucy’s sleeping form on his bed.  Though he suspects the journal is a fake, part of him wishes it was true, if only for her sake.  Setting aside the supposed events that might pass between them, her future overall seemed...brighter, in the new journal.  She wasn’t as hardened, as merciless as she ultimately ended up in his version. And if there was one thing Lucy Preston deserved, it was for her future to be full of happiness rather than rage and grief.  He wanted a different life for her, one that didn’t resemble his own. He’d carry the rage and grief for both of them, but let her kind heart be spared. It was the only thing that gave him hope anymore, her complete and utter belief in the inherent goodness in others, her determination to keep going, her warm nurturing presence that made him feel human again, more like himself and less like the monster he’d become.  She hadn’t let the fight against Rittenhouse destroy her like he had.

He sets the journal softly on the desk next to him, then eases the sling over his head and straightens his arm, stretching lightly.  The muscle is still weak in his shoulder where he’d been shot, mildly painful when flexed but otherwise functional. He knows he should probably keep the sling on as long as possible so the wound can heal, but only having the use of one arm is driving him insane.  He’d deal with the long term consequences of that decision later.

The first thing he notices as he leaves his room, closing the door softly behind him, is that the bunker is quiet.  Perhaps the quietest he’s ever heard it. A few minutes of wandering through the common areas confirms what he was suspecting.  Jiya and Connor are absent, leaving him and Lucy as the only current occupants of the bunker.

Glancing down at his watch - noon already, he must have dozed off in the chair a few times while reading - he heads for the kitchen and retrieves the jar of instant coffee he keeps on the top shelf, a particular brand from back home that he’d requested specifically for himself.  It hadn’t stopped Wyatt from giving it a try, and eventually he’d somehow managed to use half the jar, which drove Flynn to opt to hide it behind things and far out of Wyatt's reach.

He sets two mugs down on the counter and pauses a moment as the thought of Wyatt passes through his head.  The man was a goddamn asshole and a massive pain in the ass, but Flynn was admittedly curious what the younger man was up to.  Pissed as hell that he’d done it, for a multitude of reasons, but still curious. Lucy had made mention of his being a ‘reckless hothead’, but this was the first time Flynn was seeing it with his own eyes.  At least while they were on the same team, anyway.

Having made two coffees (his just black, hers with cream and sugar), he heads back to his room and slips in quietly.  Lucy is still curled up on her side facing the wall, and he smiles, tugging the blanket up further to cover her shoulders where it had slid down.  He sets the coffee down next to the bed, then departs once more, grabbing his towel on the way out. He’d been up most of the night, and when he wasn’t awake, he was curled up uncomfortably in a worn out leather chair that had next to no padding left.  His whole body is aching, an annoying reminder that he isn’t as young as he used to be, and there’s nothing he wants more than to let boiling hot water pour over his back for an hour or three. Not that he could, seeing as the boilers only had enough hot water in them for a ten minute shower before it would be back to glacially cold, but it was the thought that counted.  Normally he would only get maybe two, three minutes tops of hot water (the perils of no longer being an early riser like he once was, and so therefore always seeming to follow Wyatt Logan’s shower, a fact that Wyatt definitely knew), so in the absence of the rest of the team, he was going to take advantage of having it to himself.

He’s halfway through a glorious 5 minutes of hot water when he hears a sound echoing from the launchpad.  He’s a fair distance away and so it’s just a passing echo he hears, but...he could _swear_ it sounds like…

Flynn cranks the taps to turn the shower off, and quickly pats himself dry with his towel, resting it around his neck as he pulls on his pants, and he quickly finishes drying his hair enough that it’s no longer dripping before throwing his t-shirt on.  He slips out of the bathroom and strides quickly toward the control room (or is it command center? He’s never really been sure what to call the heart of the bunker) and sees his suspicions confirmed. The Lifeboat is back.

If he had to make a guess as to how much time had passed since he heard the first noise, however, the ship had landed a solid 3 minutes previous, and yet the door was still solidly shut, the engines quiet, no sign of life anywhere near it.  Why wasn’t Wyatt exiting the ship? Drawing closer, Flynn comes to a halt a few feet from the door, his eyes on the keypad. A streak of blood is painted across the white keys, trailing down the edge of the door before disappearing abruptly.  Whatever had caused it, there wasn’t any evidence of blood spatter on the door itself, which likely meant the Lifeboat door was open when-

Yeah.  Yeah, it’s unmistakable.  Someone had to have been shot.  Whether they managed to make it into the ship or not, he can’t tell from the visible evidence.  Only one way to know for sure.

He grimaces as he keys in the door code, his finger coming away red with someone else’s blood, and he waits for the door to fully cycle open before he ducks inside, already mentally scripting the verbal lashing he’s planning to give the younger man.  But inside all he sees are three empty seats, with the final one turned to face the wall, chestnut brown hair just barely visible above the top edge. There’s no movement from that corner and his heart pounds in his chest as he slowly reaches out to grasp the back of the chair.  There’s far less blood in the cockpit than there was on the outside, which points to whoever got shot falling back off the ship rather than making it inside, but the lack of movement concerns him. God, if the other man came back dead, he has no idea how he’s going to tell Lucy-

Turning the chair to face him, Flynn’s brow furrows as he sees not Wyatt’s prone form, but that of a tall, lanky girl instead.  She’s passed out in the seat, her skin incredibly pale, with a spatter of blood cutting a trail across her face, though she doesn’t have any visible injury as far as he can tell.  He presses two fingers to her neck, feeling for a pulse, and finds a strong one almost immediately. Just out cold, then.

He leans her back against her seat and places a hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently.  “Hey,” he says quietly, waiting for her to recover from whatever trauma made her pass out (if he had to guess, he’d say it was likely the traditional first trip in the Lifeboat resulting in her brain being battered around).  She responds only with a quiet groan but otherwise doesn’t move.

Flynn removes the seatbelt and kneels next to her, easing one arm under her legs and the other around her back.  He lifts her easily and holds her against his chest as he navigates his way back out of the ship, nearly tripping a few times but taking care not to jostle her too much.  He carries her over to their makeshift living room and lays her on the couch, then takes a step back to look at her. Her face is so familiar, but he can’t tell why; he’s definitely never met the girl, he can tell that much.

He sits on the edge of the coffee table and leans forward, elbows on his knees, and rests his chin on his clasped hands, watching as she slowly recovers, her head lolling back and forth as she groans slightly louder.

Finally, her eyes open, and she squints at the ceiling, slowly blinking her grogginess away as she looks around at her surroundings.  Her eyes fall last on Flynn, seated a few feet away from her, and her brow furrows, a hint of recognition on her face, not that he has any idea why-

“Flynn,” she says, barely above a whisper thanks to her dry throat, and he abruptly sits up straight, staring at her with somewhat more caution now.

“I’m at a disadvantage here,” he says, his voice low and suspicious.  “You know who I am, and I have no idea who the hell you are.”

She smiles, her eyes still closed as she recovers from a sudden wave of vertigo.  “I like you,” she murmurs, laughing quietly, the laugh quickly turning into a cough.  Flynn jumps to his feet and crosses to the sink, fills a glass with water, then heads back to the girl and holds it out to her.  She takes it gratefully, sitting up slightly on one elbow to gulp the water down. She seems to be recovering more by the minute, eventually easing herself into a sitting position, and is finally able to look him in the eye.

“Where is Wyatt?” Flynn asks her, and he can see it on her face immediately.  Her smile fades at once and she looks down, and it’s then that Flynn sees her hands, covered in blood and shaking slightly.  She looks over her shoulder, back toward the Lifeboat, and sees the trail of blood leading down from the keypad. She swallows heavily.

“I’m guessing that blood trail isn’t from you,” Flynn says quietly, and she nods slightly.

“He, uh...the door shut, I couldn’t…I tried, I swear to god I did-”

He doesn’t really need her to fill in the blanks, she’s said enough, and he can tell she’s close to tears.  “Hey, hey, it’s okay, calm down,” he murmurs, placing a hand on her arm again. “How about we start with your name?  That’s an easy one.”

She pauses, then nods, grateful for the distraction from her rising panic.  “It’s Amy.”

Flynn freezes, eyes widening.

“Amy Preston.”

_Well then._

_Holy shit._


	4. Chapter 4

Amy doesn’t know what to make of the expression on Flynn’s face.  

(At least, she thinks he’s Flynn; the photo on Wyatt’s phone hadn’t been the best quality to begin with, and he’d been staring at her sister rather than the camera)

She’s not sure why Wyatt didn’t seem to be a fan of the man, in any case.  His tone initially had a slight bite to it, but there was something warm underlying it all, his abrupt change in demeanor to kind and concerned the most obvious sign of this.

But now he’s staring at her like he’s seen a ghost, and she has no idea why.

“Hello?” she asks after an unbearable full minute of silence, and Flynn blinks quickly, snapping out of his daze.

“Sorry, but...did you say your name was _Amy Preston_?”

“My reputation precedes me, I guess?” she jokes, but he doesn’t smile.  Instead, he reaches out to feel her arm gently, as if he can’t quite believe she’s real.  “Seriously, are you okay?”

He finally smiles, not seeming to hear her.  “I’ll be damned. That son of a bitch did it.”  It takes her a second to realize he’s talking about Wyatt (not that it clears anything up for her in the least).  He runs a hand through his damp hair, grinning, and gets to his feet so quickly she jumps. “Just...just wait here.”

She watches him disappear down a nearby hallway and frowns, crossing her arms as she complies with his request.  She takes the opportunity to examine the space around her. It does, in fact, appear to be a bunker, and judging by the variety of furnishings and dust covered objects that must be from the 1960s at least, she’s guessing it’s incredibly old.  Amy pointedly avoids looking back over at the Lifeboat, as she still can’t stomach seeing the streaks of fresh blood on the outside of the ship.

A few minutes later, she hears two sets of footsteps approaching, and turns to look over her shoulder at the hallway once more.  But her eyes go right past Flynn, locking instead on the figure he’s currently leading by the hand. A figure who freezes in place as she sees Amy, her eyes wide, and she quickly looks over at Flynn, who stopped when she did and is currently smiling back at her.  Amy would find it interesting that their hands stayed clasped throughout this entire interaction, but it’s currently the least compelling thing in the room.

She scrambles over the back of the couch, her battered head spinning as she does and very nearly making her trip, but she recovers her footing and ignores the vertigo because this can’t be real, she must be dreaming or hallucinating and she just needs to touch her before she disappears, needs to know whether she’s real or not, needs to tell her how much she missed her, how much she’s needed her-

It’s _Lucy_.

Amy crashes into her abruptly and grips her in a tight hug, unable to stop tears, and Lucy seems taken off guard for a moment herself before she hugs Amy in return, caught between relieved laughter and her own tears.

“I’m dreaming, I have to be,” Lucy breathes, leaning back.  She draws Amy’s hair back and cups her face in her hands, looking her over.  “Oh my god, kiddo, you look so much older.”

She doesn’t have the heart to tell her it’s probably because she’s had a hellish few years of barely getting by on her own.  “Gee, thanks,” Amy deadpans instead, unable to suppress a smile. “You look like shit too.”

Lucy laughs and gives Amy’s shoulder a gentle shove.  “Hey! Language, Amelia Ruth Preston!”

“Oh shut up,” Amy laughs.  Her heart is beating in her chest so hard she fears she might pass out again.  “I’ve never been so happy to see your face, Lucy. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy in my entire life.”  She pulls her into a hug once more, this time more gentle, and rests her head against her sister’s shoulder, savoring the familiar scent of her coconut shampoo.  “I’ve missed you so much. I thought you were dead, Lucy.”

Lucy rubs a hand on Amy’s back as she returns the hug, a familiar gesture of comfort from their childhood when their mother had to work late and Lucy was left playing nurse for her sick little sister.  “How did you find me? How do you even know here exists? How did you come back?” Her questions are rapid fire, not allowing any time for a response. Not that Amy would have any useful ones. She pulls back and looks at her, confused.  

“What do you mean?  I didn’t go anywhere, it’s _you_ who disappeared.”

It’s Lucy’s turn to give Amy a look.  “What? That...I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“That makes two of us.”  Both turn toward the hall, intending to ask if Flynn knows anything more about what’s going on than them, only to discover he’s already disappeared, no doubt giving the two sisters privacy for their reunion.  Oh well. “Listen,” Amy says, turning back to Lucy, “I know we clearly have a lot to discuss, but I think for now I need ibuprofen and a drink. Preferably alcoholic, if possible.”

* * *

The Langley Porter Psychiatric Institute doesn’t just smell of chemicals and sadness, it downright _reeks_ of it.  Jiya’s never been able to stand hospitals in general, not since her _abi_ had wasted away in one, but this one is especially horrible.  The smell, the sight, the sound...all of it. Of course, she knows objectively that it’s just a typical hospital and truly not that bad, probably does a lot of good for the public, and she knows she has only her own hang-ups around hospitals to blame for her sour opinion of this one, but that doesn’t make her any less uncomfortable visiting, especially since she knows she could have easily ended up here with Stanley and just happened to get lucky (thus far, anyway, but never say never).

Connor handles speaking to the charge nurse about their visit while Jiya hovers a few feet behind him, perusing a wall of pamphlets in the waiting room that outline various psychiatric illnesses and suggestions for caregivers of sick loved ones.  Her eyes hover briefly on the pamphlet for schizophrenia, and after a moment of hesitation she starts to reach for it, but her hand snaps back to her side quickly as she sees Connor turn to her.

“Jiya, they’re ready for us,” he says, not seeming to have noticed what she was up to, and Jiya nods and follows him as a nurse leads the way down the hall.

“He’s been having a good day,” the nurse tells Connor quietly, smiling.  “He was able to wake up this morning and asked for a bit of food. We haven’t seen him go back down yet, so fingers crossed his next spell isn’t for a while.”

Both Jiya and Connor return her smile, albeit not with the same optimism.  They know exactly what is no doubt running through Stanley’s mind while he’s awake - namely, _get me out of this godforsaken present and back into the past._

The nurse opens the door to his room and holds it open for them to enter first, then follows.  “Hi, Stanley! How was lunch?” They can all see the tray of bland hospital food that is laying mostly ignored on the side table, an empty Jello cup the only sign it’s been touched.

He looks over at them as the nurse speaks, only just noticing the other two figures in the room.  He’s about to smile at Jiya until he notes Connor standing just behind her, and his expression darkens.  The nurse raises his bed higher, ignoring his affronted look of protest. “It’s a gorgeous day out, Stanley.  Maybe your friends can take you outside for some fresh air?”

“He’s not my friend,” Stanley growls, eyes narrowed at Connor.

Connor smiles thinly.  “Ah, maybe I’ll go meet with the psychiatrist for an update if he’s available.”

“A walk sounds great to me,” Jiya says as she turns her attention back to Stanley.  She can see the tension leave his shoulders as Connor exits. “How about it? Feel like some fresh air, Stanley?”

“If we must.”

Everyone in the room is fully aware, of course, that Stanley hasn’t stood up on his own for several years.  They tried a few years of rehabilitative physical therapy in the moments he was awake, at least at the start, but when his comatose spells (or, as the doctors referred to it, “chronic epileptiform narcolepsy associated with severe schizophrenia”) became more and more frequent and started to last longer each time - not to mention Stanley stubbornly fighting them every chance he got to avoid having to do it - the decision was made to give up on it in the hope that Stanley would eventually decide he wanted to walk again, wanted to get better, and they could tackle it at that time.  Unfortunately, that day never came, and the resulting muscular atrophy decided it for him - Stanley would likely never walk out of that hospital on his own two legs, if he ever left it at all.

The nurse disappears for a moment, then reappears with a high-back wheelchair that she parks next to his bed.  Another nurse joins her and Jiya watches patiently as they shift him from the bed to the wheelchair, fastening a wide lap belt around his waist to keep him upright.  “His core muscles have weakened a bit,” the nurse explains to Jiya as she works, “so supporting his weight while sitting fully upright has gotten a bit difficult.” Jiya knows this is a gentle way of saying that his whole body is starting to atrophy.  Ironically, the one who seems least bothered by this fact is Stanley himself.

Once he’s comfortable and secured, his various monitors and saline drip now attached to the chair as well, the nurses smile once more at Jiya and step aside.  “Probably no more than an hour or the battery on his IV will start to run out,” one of the nurses tells Jiya as she leaves, and she pauses to pat Stanley’s hand.  “Enjoy the sun, Stanley.”

He ignores her completely. Jiya knows he probably feels infantilized and patronized by all the hospital staff, especially since she knows his visions aren’t schizophrenia at all (or maybe hopes that, anyway, for her own sake), but she can tell most of the fight has gone out of him at this point.  She wheels him out of his room and down the hall toward the courtyard entrance, pausing at the locked doors so an orderly behind a plexiglass window can disengage the locks for them. The doors swing open automatically, and both Jiya and Stanley squint as they head out into the bright sun.

She has to admit, somewhat begrudgingly, that the courtyard is lovely - or as lovely as an enclosed hospital courtyard gets, anyway - and she looks around a moment before deciding to head over to a nearby man-made pond.  She sits on the edge of the rock wall surrounding it and engages the brakes on Stanley’s chair.

“So, how have you been?” she asks Stanley with a warm smile, then quickly adds, “Actually, maybe a better question is _when_ have you been?”

The question has the intended effect of cheering him up, as Stanley’s scowl immediately dissolves into a grin.  “I forgot how wonderful it is talking to someone who also has the gift. Sometimes I start to wonder if I’m really as crazy as everyone thinks.”  He leans in excitedly, as much as he can within the constraints of his lap belt. “My most recent mental trip was to the French Revolution, or close to anyway.  I have to say, Marie Antoinette is far more plain than I expected her to look. Threw a mean party, though.”

Jiya smiles indulgently.  She’d never truly understood whether Stanley was experiencing his visions as a sort of lucid dream where he would just observe his surroundings, or whether he was somehow actually able to alter things where he went, interact with people and objects as if he truly had traveled without the ship.  Stanley may not have been totally insane - but the Stanley that returned from his final test trip in the Mothership clearly wasn’t the same levelheaded, good-natured man who left.

“But enough about my journeys,” he says, reaching out to squeeze her hand in excitement.  “Tell me, where have _you_ gone since I saw you last?”

She sighs.  “That’s actually what I’m here about, Stanley.  I need your help.”

She spends the next several minutes describing to him in full detail the events that had transpired over the past few days (or, at least for her, the last few years as she fought to survive the San Francisco of the past).  She struggles a bit as she describes her attempts in vain to discover a way to save Rufus via her visions, and very nearly breaks down as she describes his final moments, but rushes through it quickly and moves on to the visit from the alternate Lucy and Wyatt. Stanley’s eyes widen as she recounts Lucy’s description of her visions as a gift and explanation (according to alt-Lucy, anyway) of what they actually were.  Stanley looks lost in thought as he listens, nodding absently as she speaks but clearly only hearing half of what she’s saying.

“Does any of that sound familiar?” she asks once she’s finished her story.  “I don’t understand any of it, honestly. I’ve tried to look for him anywhere I could and there’s just...nothing.  It’s like he never existed. Of course, I’ve been figuring out how to control the visions on my own, so I’m sure I’m doing something wrong.  What do you think?”

Stanley nods, and Jiya waits as he mulls it over, thankful to have caught him on a day where he’s actually somewhat cognizant of reality (or their version of it).

“Absolutely fascinating,” he finally says.  “And it raises so many more questions. Tied to ourselves throughout the multiverses - so when we travel, are we traveling to another version of ourselves, outside our own reality or timeline?  Is it a past self, a sort of reincarnation of people like us? Is it linear, or does it loop upon itself, each reality intersecting randomly but imperceptible to all but those few with the gift?”

She can tell he’s getting a bit derailed from the actual heart of her question.  “So you can’t think of anything she might have meant when she said this was how I was going to find Rufus?”  Yet again she silently curses alt-Lucy for dropping things on their lap and immediately departing with zero explanation.

“Right, right,” Stanley says, seeming to catch on to her train of thought again.  “I can only make guesses, you know.”

“Guesses are better than nothing,” she replies, shrugging.  “Because without your help, that’s all that I have.”

“Well, the first thing she said was that you’d been ‘taken out in most timelines’, right?”  Jiya nods. “I wonder if part of your problem with finding Rufus is that there aren’t many versions of yourself left out there to tap into.”

The thought makes her blood run cold.  It was bad enough to have a visitor from some other version of reality show up and tell her there’s a million timelines and therefore a million of her out there; learning there’s only a handful of Jiyas left in time and space is a just an extra punch to the gut.  Worse than that, it points towards someone - or some _thing_ \- trying to systematically wipe her out of existence, and though Jiya knows she isn’t a saint in the least, she doesn’t know of anyone who hates her enough to attempt to extinguish her very existence.

(Emma Whitmore, perhaps, but she doesn’t put that much stock in the woman’s ability to figure these things out on her own.  She was a lone engineer slash pilot, not a one-woman science team.)

“Then why did they bother telling me, if I’m the only one left-”

“Wait wait wait,” he says quickly, holding up a hand to silence her, staring intently at the ground before them as if he’s just thought of something and is trying to sort it out.  She stays quiet, allowing him the time to think it through. “Is that was she said, word for word?” he finally asks, looking back at Jiya, who cocks her head to the side in confusion, and he gives her a look of exasperation that she isn’t keeping up with his thought process.  “You said she phrased it “you and other people like you”, right?”

Jiya nods.  “Something like that.”  She can feel the hint of an epiphany in the back of her mind, though she hasn’t yet gotten a handle on what exactly that epiphany might be.

“We know we’re not the only ones,” Stanley says urgently, taking her hand once more and this time holding it in both of his.  “If you can’t tap into your own essence for answers, maybe you can tap into someone else’s.”

“Stanley, I wouldn’t know where to begin with that,” she sighs.  “I barely understand how to tap into my own timeline, let alone how to reach other people on other timelines.”

“What did the book say?”

“Book?”

Again he looks impatient.  “The book she gave you, the journal, the one she said had all the answers.”

Jiya blushes.  “I, uh...didn’t read it yet.”

Stanley blinks at her and for a moment Jiya expects him to rake her over the coals for it - but instead he just laughs, which takes Jiya off guard.

“I always appreciate a visit from someone who shares the gift,” he finally says after his laughter subsides.  “But you’re asking me about things I have no real knowledge about while ignoring the resources you already have.  That seems like a better jumping off point than asking me.”

She smiles and nods, feeling somewhat like a gently admonished student.  “Yeah, probably. I guess I just hoped you might have an easy answer for me.  You’ve been at this a lot longer than me.”

He smiles warmly in return.  “Two heads are better than one, of course.”  A pause. “Actually, a million heads are better than one.”

She sighs.  There goes his moment of lucidity.

“Should we go back inside?” she asks, ready to get up, and Stanley waves a hand, making her take a seat once more.

“No, Jiya, you’re missing my point.  You may not be able to reach out to yourself, and you may not yet know how to reach out to others who have our gifts - but _I_ can reach out to _myself_.”

It dawns on her, and she mentally kicks herself for having doubted him.  “You mean searching the various timelines that you still exist in?”

“Exactly.”

“But Stanley, what good will that do if you’re trapped in the hospital?”

“Even if I can’t find Rufus myself, combining knowledge from all the multiverses may give us an answer as to how _you_ can.  And if you go read that helpful book-”  He pauses to give her a pointed look. “-then between the two of us, maybe we can figure this out.  Maybe we can find him together.”

For the first time in days (months, maybe - the progression of her own timeline was starting to confuse her), she feels a weight off her chest, feels a real, actual hope that she may finally be able to save Rufus.  “Stanley, you’re brilliant.” This time she takes his hand and looks at him with genuine appreciation. “Thank you.”

Stanley is beaming, and she feels a stab of sympathy for the man - locked away from the world, considered insane, it must have been such a pleasant surprise when someone who believed him walked through that door.  She makes a mental note to visit him again soon.

“Should we get started?” he says quickly, and it takes her a second to realize he’s suggesting he lapse back into visions immediately, and not just suggesting it, but eager to do it.

“Why don’t I take you back to your room, Stanley?” she says gently.  “It’ll be more comfortable if you travel while you’re laying down.”

He nods, smiling as she gets to her feet and wheels him back toward the doors to the ward.  She glances down at him as they move and slows somewhat as she sees him looking thoughtfully at the treetops, at the birds perched there and singing brightly.

“Free as a bird,” he murmurs quietly, seemingly more to himself than to Jiya, before turning to stare forward once more, the open sky forgotten.

* * *

“Is this truly necessary?”

Denise doesn’t look at Lucy as she asks the question, her eyes fixed on the examiner as he straps Amy into the various monitoring devices for the polygraph test.  “After Jessica, we take no chances,” she replies, her tone saying in no uncertain terms that it isn’t up for discussion.

“It’s fine, Lucy,” Amy tells her gently, smiling.  Lucy sighs and smiles back, her shoulders relaxing a fraction.

They’d only just been settling down on the couch with beers in hand when Denise had rushed in, the poor government employee who would be administering the test trailing after her, his arms full of equipment and an expression of mixed confusion, awe, and terror on his face.  Denise hadn’t even paused to introduce herself before insisting Amy be tested. They’d made the mistake once before of not doing their due diligence about newcomers to the bunker, and Denise Christopher does not make the same mistake twice.

Denise takes a seat across from her, the very picture of the stoic government agent that Lucy met that night two years ago.  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Amy. I’m Agent Denise-”

“-Christopher, homeland security, yes, I know,” Amy finishes for her.  “We’ve met.”

Denise’s brow furrows and she glances over at Lucy briefly.  “I’m sorry, you must be mistaken, I’ve never-”

“Don’t ask me the how or why, because I still have no idea what’s going on, but this morning I was unloading groceries from my car and talking with you on the phone for our weekly check-in, and then I got in that ship and hit the button Wyatt told me to, and now I’m here.”

Lucy looks up quickly at the mention of Wyatt.  Denise seems unfazed by that particular detail, which doesn’t really surprise her.  Flynn had obviously called her at some point, probably given her all the details he knew.  The fact that he hadn’t thought to bring up Wyatt’s name when he’d woken Lucy and dragged her eagerly toward the kitchen aggravates her slightly; the petty rivalry between the two men had been getting on her nerves more and more as of late, but this was an unexpected new low for Flynn, withholding information from her.

“You saw Wyatt?” Lucy asks.

Amy nods.  “He told me he was going to take me to you.  We were about to leave when we were attacked.”  Amy’s voice falters. “He...made me leave without him.  I...I don’t know what happened to him after that.”

“After what?”

Amy looks across the room, toward the Lifeboat, and Lucy notices for the first time the visible smears of blood on the outside of the ship.  Her eyes snap back to Amy, who just nods, unable to meet her sister’s gaze.

“Oh…” Lucy breathes, feeling suddenly disoriented.  “He...that’s his-...” Amy nods once more, slower, and Lucy moves from disoriented to full-blown shock.  “How?”

“Lucy,” Denise says gently, “would I be able to speak with your sister, alone?”  Lucy looks ready to protest and Denise raises a preemptive hand. “I’ll be gentle with her, you have my word.”

Lucy sighs and nods, still reeling as she slowly makes her way toward the hall.  

“Lucy, wait,” Amy calls after her.  “Wyatt, he...said to tell you he’d left something in his room for you.”

“Did he say what?”

“No.  That’s all he told me.”

It’s silent in the back hallway as Lucy makes her way toward Wyatt’s room.  The silence is even more deafening as she closes the door behind her, blocking out the distant echoes of voices from the kitchen.  She glances around his room and sees nothing in plain sight, and so sets to work going through the remainder of his things for some clue as to what he may have left.

After a few minutes of searching, she finds a folded sheet of paper tucked into a pile of his clothes.  Her name is scrawled on the outside, and she unfolds it only to see a tiny SD card taped inside.

She gently pries the SD card off the paper as she sits on the edge of the bed, pulling her phone from her back pocket as she does so.  It contains only one file - a short video, taken the day before, according to the time stamp. She taps the screen and sees Wyatt fiddling with the camera before seating himself in the same spot she’s currently inhabiting.

 _“Hey, Luce.”_ He gives a halfhearted wave.   _“I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye in person.  I figured if you knew what I was up to there was no way you’d let me go alone.  But we’re already down one man, and I’m just not willing to risk everyone else’s lives.”_ He looks down at the floor, gathering his thoughts, then looks back up.   _“Lucy, I’m so,_ so _sorry I hurt you.  I’m not sure if you’ve noticed-”_  A sarcastic, self-effacing smile.   _“-but I’m a huge goddamn mess.  I probably always have been, and it’s made a mess of my life as long as I can remember, but it was usually just me caught in the crossfire.  Jess for a while, too. But now I’ve let it bleed over onto you as well, who didn’t deserve any of this. I’ve been a selfish ass for months now - shit, probably years, honestly - and I’m only just realizing that.  Just now, when it’s probably too late to have a hope in hell of making up for it.”_

“It’s not,” Lucy murmurs to the silence.

 _“There’s nothing I can do to take back everything I did.  All the poor choices I made. Ironic, really, seeing as we have a time machine.  Or maybe I could take it back, go figure out a way to mess around with the past so everyone would forget my fuck-ups, but that’s the coward’s way out.  I’m trying something new, it’s called ‘owning my shit’.”_ He grins.   _“So rather than most likely fuck things up further, I decided it was time to make good on my promise from years ago.  I’m going to find Amy for you, somewhere out there, and I’m going to bring her back.”_

Lucy swallows heavily, a tight feeling in her chest.

 _“I do love you, Lucy.  I’m sorry for my awful timing in saying it.  It wasn’t fair. It was more for my own benefit than anything, and I can see that in hindsight.  But I want you to know that no matter how things ended up between us, I will always love you. Because whether or not you’re actually_ with _me-”_  He pauses to look down at the floor again, and this time doesn’t look back up.   _“-you’re my family.  All of you. And I need all of you in my life.  I already fucked things up when I broke your heart, I know that, but I’m hoping one day I can make up for it enough that we can at least be friends again.  Hell, even if I’m just the soldier watching your back, I’ll take it - I’m a better man for having known you, Lucy Preston, and I will be forever grateful to you for that.”_ He gives the camera one final smile before reaching forward, and the video abruptly cuts off.

For several minutes after Lucy simply sits there, holding her phone in her lap as she stares at the floor ahead of her.

Finally, her shoulders slump and she muffles a sob with her hand.  He’d given her back the one thing she wanted most in the world, given her back the piece of her heart that was missing without her sister in her life.  And he’d sacrificed himself to do it. Now she’d lost both him and Rufus. Now it was just her, Flynn, and Jiya. She can’t handle any more loss. She’s already long since reached her limit.  

Wyatt Logan.  Wyatt-goddamn-Logan.  That idiot.

She’s interrupted in her moment of grief by the sudden noise of the telltale alarm signaling a Mothership jump, and her head snaps up quickly.  She rubs her eyes on the sleeve of her sweater to wipe the tears away, then rushes out to the hallway, jogging back toward the kitchen. She can see Flynn is already there, hunched over the various monitors at the main console, and Lucy rushes to join him, jaw clenched as she draws near, her aggravation with Flynn not yet forgotten.

“Where’d they jump?” Lucy asks quietly, not wanting to interrupt the polygraph proceedings just wrapping up a few meters away.

“January 28, 1848.  Sacramento.”

Lucy wracks her brain for any events of note.  “It’s...four days after gold was discovered at Sutter’s Mill, which instigated the gold rush.  It...basically made California a state.” Flynn turns back toward her and they meet eyes, both confused.  “Why would Rittenhouse want to disrupt that? What do they gain?”

“Boost of political power, perhaps?  California is a fairly liberal state.”  Flynn snorts softly. “Of course, just wanting the gold is also within the realm of possibility for them.”

Lucy crosses her arms.  “So they’re either hoping to somehow disrupt the gold rush, in which case goodbye California, or they just want the money.  But money just for money’s sake has never been Rittenhouse’s style.”

“Rittenhouse has also never had Emma alone at the helm,” Flynn points out, and Lucy shakes her head.

“Emma doesn’t give a damn about the money,” Lucy says, her voice low.  “She’s only ever wanted power. There’s no way she’d waste resources on retrieving a few gold nuggets.  This could very well be a trap.”

Denise finally joins them by the console, her face grim.  “What’s the sitrep?”

“Sacramento.  Or thereabouts.  We won’t know the actual situation until we get there.”

Denise nods thoughtfully.  “We should wait until I can get another man for the team.”

“What?  That will take way too long,” Lucy protests, looking to Flynn for backup.  “We always operated with one soldier in the past.”

“Yes, and Master Sergeant Logan did his best to watch your backs, but having a second man was undeniably a huge help.”

“What options do we have?  Either we follow them and find out what they’re planning, or we stay here and the state of California dissolves without us ever knowing about it because we’re busy waiting for you to track down another man you trust enough, then waiting for him to get appropriate security clearance, then waiting for him to get here-”

“More importantly,” Flynn cuts in, “we need to stop reacting to whatever moves Rittenhouse makes and start being proactive  Go on the offensive.”

She sighs.  “I would love to do that, Flynn, but we’re down to one pilot, one historian, and one soldier.  We don’t have the resources left to just run after them without knowing what we’re getting into.  And I don’t doubt your combat skills in the least, but we have no idea what Rittenhouse has waiting for us.”

“Then give me a gun.”

Denise looks at Lucy in surprise.  “Lucy, you’re a civilian, you know I can’t do that.”

“Either give me one now, or I try and find a weapon in the past, and we all saw how well that went last time.”  She and Flynn share a knowing look, recalling their less than smooth trip to Salem months previous.

Denise apparently remembers as well.  “Fine. You can take my sidearm for now to save time - but the moment you get there, Flynn shows you how to use it properly.”

“She knows,” Flynn tells her, smiling at Lucy proudly.  “She tagged Emma with a Colt 45 and then very nearly with my Glock after that as well.”

“I’ve learned a few things,” Lucy says, shrugging.  “Enough to get by as backup.”

They’re interrupted by the sound of the bunker entrance door closing loudly shortly before Jiya and Connor appear, jogging toward them.  “I’m back,” Jiya calls breathlessly. “Where are we off to?” She stops short in the kitchen as she spots their new addition still seated at one of the tables, the examiner just finishing unhooking the various recording instruments.  “I’ve...missed something, clearly.”

“Jiya, right?” Amy says, smiling as she gets to her feet.  The vertigo has mostly gone away at that point and she extends a hand toward Jiya.  “I’m Amy, Lucy’s-”

“Sister,” Jiya finishes, eyes wide.  “How is this possible?” They’re wondering how best to explain the situation to her when she finally spots the Lifeboat, her face falling as she sees the blood trail.  She swallows, brow knit, and shakes her head. “No, don’t...don’t tell me.” She looks helplessly toward Lucy, who nods, her eyes downcast, and Jiya has to look at the floor a moment to compose herself.  She takes a few deep, even breaths, then looks up again, her face hard. She’d fallen back on her old coping tactics, the things that kept her alive while marooned in the past. Keep the walls high enough and no one will be able to breach them - and don’t ever let them see you bleed.  

She finally forces a smile and shakes Amy’s hand.  “It’s good to meet you, Amy.” Their introduction is short, as Jiya immediately heads toward the main console where the rest of the team is gathered, shooing them out of the way so she can seat herself in front of the keyboard.  “Sacramento, huh? Do we have any idea what they’re up to?”

“A few guesses,” Denise answers, “but nothing concrete, which means we’ll be going in blind.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”  Her fingers fly across the keys as she works to narrow down the Mothership’s location more precisely.  “So it’ll be me, Lucy, and Flynn?” she asks, not pausing from her typing.

“We don’t have much choice.  It’ll take way too long to secure another soldier-”

“Lucy, what’s going on?”

Amy is standing a few feet away, trying to follow their conversation and obviously failing.  Lucy looks toward her sister, wondering how to explain, and glances over at Denise briefly to gauge whether or not she has permission.  Denise nods. “She passed the polygraph.”

“Did...did Wyatt explain any of this to you?” Lucy asks her, descending the stairs.  Amy meets her at the base of them. “The ships, what we’re doing here, anything?”

“Not really.  He told me about the other ship and the...the time traveling, but the rest he never got a chance to explain.”

“Lucy,” Denise interrupts with a hint of urgency in her tone.  “We need to get moving. Can this wait until you’re back?”

“She should come with us.”

There’s an ensuing pause of silence, and then Denise shakes her head.  “Not a chance. Absolutely not. Flynn already has to keep an eye on two civilians, let alone three, and that’s a great way to get her killed.”

Lucy looks over at Denise, her jaw set.  “She can take care of herself. So can Jiya.  I can fire a gun. We’re probably more prepared for a fight right now than we’ve ever been.  But more important than that, I _refuse_ to leave her behind again.”

Denise understands.  Lucy can see it in her eyes.  “Lucy, I know what nightmare scenarios must be running through your head.  But Amy has done exactly one jump. She has no combat experience-”

“Not strictly true,” Amy mumbles under her breath, not wanting to interrupt the discussion but slightly affronted at the assumption Agent Christopher was making about her fighting abilities.  She’d worked her ass off for that black belt, not to mention the lifetime she’d spent picking fights over her sister’s honor.

“-and she has zero context as to what we’re doing.  The culture shock alone will slow you down. She’ll be more of a liability than an asset.”

Lucy shakes her head firmly.  “Either she goes, or I stay. I’m not walking away from her, Denise.  I just…” She looks at Amy, her expression pained. “I just can’t. I can’t lose her again.”

“Lucy…”  Denise sighs.  She’s backed into a corner - the only thing more dangerous than sending Amy along was Jiya and Flynn going without Lucy to navigate the historical context for them.  “Fine. But no weapon, and I wash my hands of any responsibility for what might happen. Understood?”

Lucy nods gratefully and looks back at Amy.  “C’mon, let’s get you strapped in.”

“I have _no_ idea what is going on.  Strapped in where?” It occurs to her then and she glances briefly at the Lifeboat.  “In _that_ again?  I nearly had brain damage the last time I rode in it.  Where are you even going?”

“Sacramento.  1848.” Lucy smiles and takes her sister’s hand gently.  “You always did like westerns when you were little, right?”

Amy finally reluctantly allows Lucy to lead her toward the ship.  “That doesn’t necessarily translate to ‘Hey, you know what might be fun, experiencing the old west first hand, I’ve always wondered what dysentery is like’.”

If she’s honest, though, she’s feeling a rush of excited anticipation.  It was enough of a thrill to finally find her sister after two years of searching and giving up hope.  Everything feels so surreal, and she wonders for a moment if the redhead had in fact managed to kill her in that alleyway and all of this is just some elaborate death hallucination.  But the hand gripping hers tightly feels very real, as does the cold metal of the stair railing that she rests her free hand on as she follows Lucy up and into the ship.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you panic, we do start to diverge from canon after roughly this point, so you don't have a straight up finale redux to look forward to. Much like with the initial influx of Wyatt in this fic, all I can say is - hang in there!

Rufus waits impatiently as the orderly squeezes his bag of donuts far tighter than he really  _ needs _ to if he’s looking for sharp objects.  It’s not like this is a prison (well, not technically), and Rufus highly doubted Stanley Fisher would be hopping out of bed anytime soon to make his jailbreak.  Hell, the man couldn’t even walk anymore, his leg muscles had atrophied so severely. This fact never seemed to bother Stanley, in the rare moments of lucidity he had now and then.  He always seemed impatient having to actually speak with someone in the ‘real world’, as if he was hurrying through the conversation so he could quickly get back to his visions.

Part of Rufus envies him.

The orderly finally hands the bag back to Rufus and gets to his feet, nodding for him to follow.  Reaching the door, the orderly pulls a keycard on a retractable cord from his belt and presses it to an access panel next to a patient room.  The door locks disengage loudly, and the orderly tugs the door open, again nodding for Rufus to go in. 

Rufus steps into the room, his crumpled bag of donuts clasped in one hand.  No luck - Stanley was having a bad day (though Stanley would argue it’s a good day), his head laying slack against the mattress as his eyes stay permanently rolled back in his head.  It had been disturbing the first few times Rufus had visited, watching his eyes twitch all over while his mouth lolled open, but before long he’d adjusted to it enough that he no longer noticed it.  Hell, he’d even cleaned up the man’s drool once or twice without his one-sided conversation breaking stride.

“Hey Stanley!” he says with false enthusiasm, and as expected gets no response.  A pretty deep one today, then. Oh well, press on. “Looking good buddy. Doing something new with your hair?”

He flops into the seat next to Stanley’s hospital bed.  He’s not sure why he’s still making these weekly visits.  Attempting to keep his sanity, he supposes, seeing as Stanley is officially the only person left with whom he can discuss his life.  He’d considered a therapist briefly, then realized that would be utterly pointless - he’d be admitted to the room next to Stanley immediately.  Thanks a lot, time travel.

“It hasn’t been the most productive week for me so far,” he begins, reaching into the bag to retrieve a smushed donut and taking a bite.  He holds the bag out toward Stanley, offering a donut. He knows he’ll get no response, but it gives him the illusion he’s having an actual conversation and not just talking into the void.  “No? Suit yourself.” He plops the bag down on the table next to the hospital bed, then leans back in his chair. “I’ve managed to collect a bit more information about some of the main Rittenhouse safehouses, not that it does me much good without a government agency behind me, but at least it’s some sort of progress.”

He’s not even sure why he’s continuing to try.  It would be easy to simply collect his family and disappear, let someone else lead the fight against Rittenhouse - what could one man do against them, anyway?  But that idea only ever lasts a few seconds before he imagines a world shaped by Rittenhouse, things changing around him without his even realizing, and knows there’s every chance running away would do nothing, and his life would just get exponentially worse the more Rittenhouse meddled unimpeded.  They could even take a trip back to erase  _ him _ , and he’d never be aware of it.  He has literally only one option left - fighting back.  

(True, he technically has two options, but the other one - to give up and die - isn’t a real solution so much as his easy way out)

“I’ve still had no luck with my theoretical physics research.  Trying to figure out the science of all this without Connor or-”  He swallows. He hasn’t been able to say her name in months. Each time he thinks about her, he feels like he’s on the edge of a total breakdown, and he just...can’t do that right now.  Not yet. There would be time to mourn her, to mourn them all, later. “Well, anyway. Anthony was better at all this than me. Nothing like learning on the job, huh?”

No response.

“Yeah, you get it.  Anyway, I’ve been trying to figure out how to reproduce the conditions of that Lifeboat trip, the one we did with four people to three seats.  Figured it might be handy to have some visions to give me a vague idea of where to go with everything. Not that we ever proved the visions were tied to something that actually happened during that trip, but I’m desperate if that isn’t obvious.  No luck so far. I’m tempted just to try taking the Lifeboat out and then unstrap from my seat, but that’s probably the dumbest idea I’ve come up with yet and a recipe for a concussion. Running out of them, though, so eventually it’ll come down to what have I got to lose?”

Rufus reaches for his bag of donuts and retrieves another mashed up ring.  “It’ll either work or kill me,” he adds, “and at this point, either one of those options would be good.”

God, she’d hit him so hard upside the head if she were here.   _ How dare you, Rufus Carlin.  You are not a quitter and you never have been. _  And Connor would probably stand just behind her, nodding his assent and giving him a pointed fatherly  _ I’m not mad, just disappointed  _ look.  Not that they could possibly understand his situation.  They’d never had to live in a world without him in it.

“You know, Stanley, you’ve been vision-ing the last three weeks that I’ve come by.  Starting to feel like it’s pointless to visit.” He looks over his shoulder, toward the window currently filled with sunlight.  It’s a beautiful day outside. Why was he even bothering with this, when he could be out there, getting some air before heading back to his makeshift bunker (actually a vacant, run-down warehouse that he’d bought with some cash he had set aside, no questions asked from the seller who obviously wasn’t above board himself).  What he really wished he could go do is visit his mother and Kevin, even just for an hour...but if it wasn’t safe for them before, it was  _ definitely _ unsafe for them now.

A noise from the bed catches his attention and he turns back to face Stanley.  To his complete and utter shock, Stanley has come to, and is currently blinking as he squints up at the ceiling, his eyes not yet adjusted to the harsh change in lighting.

“Hey Stanley,” Rufus says, grinning.  “Welcome back to the land of the living, bud.”

Stanley turns his head and only then seems to notice Rufus, and his face brightens in response.  He reaches a hand for the bed controls to lift himself into a sitting position (he could, obviously, just sit up, but Rufus is certain his back muscles are starting to atrophy along with the rest of his body and he probably doesn’t have the strength anymore).  Once he’s comfortably able to look at Rufus face to face, he returns the grin. “Rufus. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Oh?  Why’s that?”  He holds out the bag of donuts again, and this time Stanley takes one.  Rufus is fully aware Stanley has a g-tube trailing from his abdomen where his body gets its nutrition, but he still seems to enjoy the treats that Rufus brings all the same.  Which makes sense; he may be unconscious 95% of the time, but he’s still human, and Rufus suspects the routine reminds Stanley of his life before all of...this. The good old days when Rufus would adjust the coding on the fly while Stanley was in the simulator giving him feedback on how it handled, and afterward they’d always make a coffee run for the team, taking turns buying.  If he’s being honest, Rufus enjoys the reminder of a happier time as well. A time when they were all excited about their mind-blowing innovation, excited about changing the future for the better.

Stanley savors his donut, taking only small bites so as to avoid upsetting his stomach.  “I heard whispers of you.”

Ah, so it starts.  Usually he could get a minute or two of real conversation out of Stanley before everything he said switched to ‘batshit insane’ mode.  Still, at least he’d gotten him conscious for once, after three weeks of talking to the wall.

“Who was whispering?”

“Me.”  Stanley grins widely.  “Haunting me through the past, trying to catch my attention, but no, no, it isn’t smart to let down your guard when traveling.  But I caught me.”

This is a new one.  He’d heard Stanley talk about wisdom he’d gleaned from historical figures, heard him rave enthusiastically about ‘forbidden colors’, but he’d never mentioned conversations with himself before.  Maybe his brain was finally starting to break down, and this was the unfortunate first sign of the end.

Still, may as well indulge him.  “And what did you tell yourself, Stanley?”

“We compared notes first.”  Another couple of bites; Rufus waits in pained silence, trying to be patient with his sick friend.  “Such interesting differences.”

“Differences?” he repeats, eyebrow raised.  “Sorry buddy, you lost me.”

“Oh, of course, you don’t have the gift.  It’s a tangled web, Rufus, each of us coming so close to each other but never touching.  But those with the gift transcend, not tethered to any single path-”

Rufus raises a hand.  “Hang on bud, before we get into...that stuff, what did you tell yourself about me?”

Stanley pauses, thrown off by the interruption, then perks again.  “Oh, yes! It was about her.”

“Her?”

Stanley’s grin widens.  “She’s looking for you.”

* * *

“Do you know how to shoot a gun?”

Amy looks up, still resting on one arm against the barn, and wipes her mouth on her sleeve.  Her eyes go immediately to the revolver in Jiya’s hand, and she shakes her head. 

Jiya sighs and tucks the gun into her belt instead, taking care to tug her shawl over the weapon to conceal it.  “Okay, never mind. We’ll stick with a classic.” She pulls a wicked looking leather-sheathed Bowie knife from her belt and holds it out.  Amy stares at it, but otherwise doesn’t move, and finally Jiya sighs and tosses it on top of the dress laying nearby waiting for Amy to change into it.  “Obviously, you should probably try to avoid combat altogether, but if worse comes to worst at least you’ll have something. Instructions are easy on that one.  Pointy end goes in the bad guy. ”

“What constitutes a ‘bad guy’?” Amy asks.  “We’re talking self-defense here, I hope? Because I’ll tell you right now, I have no desire to go run around knifing people-”

“Definitely  _ not _ the plan,” Jiya says with a smile.  “We’re not running a criminal syndicate here.  Just an...admittedly varied medley of individuals with surprisingly niche talents that just happen to really balance each other out.”

“And where does Lucy fit into this?”

“That one should be obvious. She’s our historian.”

Amy sighs.  “She’s still at that, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs.  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure she likes history enough, but all she’s ever done is follow in mom’s footsteps.  She had this...dream job, that just happened to be in Ohio, teaching at a women’s college. It would have been exactly what she wanted to do.  But one disapproving look from mom later and she was signing right on to teach at Stanford instead. Carry on the ‘Preston Legacy’.”

“Sounds like Carol,” Jiya mutters under her breath.

“What’s that mean?”

Jiya freezes, realizing too late that Lucy and Amy must not have had a chance to get each other up to speed on their respective timelines.  “You should probably talk to Lucy about it.” She can see the dread that passes over Amy’s face at her tone of voice, and Amy looks over in Lucy’s direction...shortly before throwing up once more.

A short distance away, Flynn is seated in the shade of a tree, hat resting on his knee as he watches Amy.  “Is she gonna be okay?”

Lucy finishes fastening her belt over the shawl around her shoulders and looks over at her sister, who is still leaning against the side of the barn and has just finished vomiting for a second time.  “I believe your record after your first Lifeboat trip was three, wasn’t it? Maybe she’s going for the high score.”

Flynn looks at Lucy, a hint of a smirk on his face and eyebrow raised.  “Do you ever plan to let me live that down?”

“Considering how cocky you were about it?”  She smiles, a touch too sweet to be genuine.  “Not a chance.”

Having finished emptying the contents of her stomach, Amy finally retrieves her bundle of clothing from the grass and steps inside the open door of the barn for some privacy so she can change out of the blood-spattered jeans and blouse she’d been wearing since she arrived in the bunker.  A second passes and then they hear her call Jiya for help, no doubt struggling with how exactly she should be wearing the various garments she’d been handed.

They’d managed to find two dresses on a washline relatively close to where they’d landed the Lifeboat, but had run into issues finding clothes for the remaining two members of the team.  Flynn had then unceremoniously kicked in the door to the small farmhouse - which, thank god, had been vacant at the time, the occupants no doubt out in the fields or in town for the day - and managed to find himself a surprisingly slick black outfit.  The hat was a bit over the top, of course; intimidating, sure, but every time Lucy glanced at it she had to suppress a smile. The man was already 6’4, and when combined with a hat that size, he stuck out like a sore thumb, a veritable giant in a time period when a man was lucky to reach 5’9.  Between that and traveling with three women, they’d no doubt stand out anyway once they reached a populated area, which might mean his height would be a blessing in disguise, keeping any would-be attackers at bay.

“We need to talk,” Lucy says, not looking at Flynn as he looks up at her.

“What about?”

“You know what.”

“You severely overestimate my ability to read your mind, Lucy.”

She finally looks down at him.  “About Wyatt.”

He shuts up immediately and for a moment they just stare at each other, and she can see on his face a mixture of confusion and sympathy.  It finally occurs to her that he probably  _ doesn’t _ know what she’s talking about, not specifically anyway, which makes her angry all over again.  Had he already forgotten they were down a man? Could he get over the loss of a teammate that easily?  Did he really just hate Wyatt that much?

She hates stewing over things, hates grudges, but her heart is still aching from the loss and the anger she’s aiming at Flynn is a handy panacea to keep her from having to think about Wyatt’s absence.  Fortunately, Jiya and Amy reappear at that moment, Amy now kitted out fully in a dress that clearly hadn’t been worn by anyone in some years, judging by the holes in the lower half of the skirt. She also has a wicked looking knife tucked into her belt, the weight of it against her hip throwing her slightly off balance as she walks.

“I’ve gotta say, I don’t feel any safer having this knife,” Amy is telling Jiya as they head toward Lucy and Flynn.  “I’ll probably manage to stab myself before anyone else. And by the time they get close enough to me to use it, I’ll probably already be dead.”

Jiya stops abruptly and reaches for the knife, tugging it from the sheath before Amy can react, and flings it at the tree Flynn is currently seated beneath.  He scrambles to the side just as the knife hits the intended target several feet above his head.

“Jesus, Jiya, you could have taken my head off!”

“Only if you moved,” she shoots back, eyebrow raised.  “Or had that hat on.” Flynn has no response to that and so just turns away, crossing his arms and glowering.  Jiya tugs the knife from the tree and hands it back to Amy hilt-first. “There are ways around the proximity issue,” Jiya says as Amy carefully slides the knife back into the sheath.  “But for now, seeing as I don’t have time to teach you throwing at the moment, just focus on hanging back, and if anyone gets too close, like I said - pointy end.”

“Where did you learn to do that?” Amy asks her, thoroughly impressed.  

Jiya looks away, her face unreadable.  “Just something I learned out of necessity.”

“God, this is all surreal,” Amy says, completely oblivious to the look on Jiya’s face as she glances around.  “You’d never know we weren’t in 2018.”

“For now,” Lucy tells her pointedly.  “Just wait until we get into town. Talking of which, Coloma is roughly a half hour away on foot, if the Lifeboat landing coordinates were accurate.  It’s still early yet so if we leave now we’ll avoid the worst of the midday sun.”

Flynn retrieves his hat from the ground and places it back on his head, then checks his pistol to ensure it’s ready to go.  Lucy quickly does the same, then tucks her shoulder holster back beneath the shawl. It’s lumpy, but it works to conceal the weapon, so long as passersby don’t look particularly close at her chest (which, she fully realizes, may be impossible for a gold rush town crawling with 95% men, but she’d cross that bridge when she came to it).

“Alright,” Flynn says, gesturing to the road.  “Lead the way, Lucy.”

* * *

The town of Coloma, at least in 1848, is as dingy as one would expect for a settlement that essentially exists only to support the gold mining operation to the north.  A few buildings are scattered around a small stretch of dirt road, mainly the necessities (post office, inn, and of course, the only bar in town), most of them looking slapped together and clearly not particularly well taken care of.  Almost every porch is crowded with dirt-covered men who don’t look like they’ve showered in weeks, and every one of them is leering at the three women currently walking down main street.

“What are we looking for?” Amy whispers to Jiya, whose eyes are flicking back and forth as she keeps an eye on both sides of the street.

“Not sure.  There’s a Rittenhouse sleeper agent somewhere around here - we think, anyway - but we have no idea who they are or what they look like.”

“I understood about four of those words.”

Jiya can’t blame her for being confused.  “Lucy didn’t tell you anything at all? Anything?”

“We never got a chance.”

“Great.  Fantastic.”  She shakes off the frustration quickly, knowing it’s entirely misplaced anger as they have only Rittenhouse to blame for having to leave so quickly.  She’d barely even had time to go retrieve Lucy’s journal before they headed out (and Lucy would no doubt be pissed when she found out later, but she’d worry about that when the time came to it).  They’d not said much as they made their way into town either, palpable tension between two particular individuals preventing casual conversation, not to mention the worry that Rittenhouse may somehow have eyes on them from any number of places.

“Can you give me the Coles notes version?” Amy asks.

Jiya sighs.  She really shouldn’t be the one telling Amy the background for all of this.  They’d only just met two hours ago, for god's sake. “There are two ships. One is the Lifeboat - what we came here in - and the other is called the Mothership.  Unfortunately, the Mothership is in the possession of a group called Rittenhouse-”

“I remember you all saying that name, but no one explained who or what they were.”

“The short story on them is ‘Imagine if that misogynist philosophy major from university that you hated was suddenly in charge of the country’.”

“That’s...an impressive level of awful.”

“Pretty much.  They’ve decided they have this idea of what the future should be like.  Or, present, I guess; never mind, point is, they think only they know best, and they’ve been attempting to alter significant historical events using sleeper agents they’ve planted throughout history, in the hopes that it will tip the scales in their favor in the future.  Present. Whatever. And we are literally the only thing standing in their way.”

Jiya’s hand flies to her shawl, her hand inches away from the gun tucked behind the heavy wool fabric, as she sees a man heading directly for Amy.  He veers away at the last moment, stumbling and very obviously drunk. Jiya lets out a breath and lowers her hand again. She quickens her pace and nods for Amy to keep up.  “Come on, we need to stay close.”

Lucy has just decided they should start asking questions at the bar when two men on a nearby porch loudly whistle, openly leering at the group of women a few feet away.  

“How much for the brunette?” one of them calls to Flynn.  

It’s at that moment Lucy realizes they think the three women are hookers, out for a stroll with their pimp, and Flynn looks at her askance.  She looks apoplectic, and turns toward the men with a dangerous and precise slowness.

But before she can open her mouth, Amy takes a step closer to the porch.  “What the hell did you just say?”

The men switch attention to her immediately - they clearly aren’t feeling picky, if their lascivious grins are any indication.  “Well, well, somebody’s got a mouth on her.” The man speaking licks his lips. “Bet I can think of a better use for it.” 

Amy’s face darkens and she strides toward the porch, fists clenched, but Flynn darts forward quickly and takes hold of her shoulders, steering her back toward the group.  “That’s enough, let it go,” he murmurs, and he can hear the deep breath she lets out as she nods and allows him to lead her away.

“Say that again.”  They all look toward Jiya, who is now brandishing her revolver, holding it casually at her side with her thumb on the hammer.  The men turn their attention to her as well, their smiles dropping as they see the gun in her hand and the look on her face. “Go ahead, boys.  Say it again. I didn’t quite catch it.” She pulls the hammer back with a quiet  _ click _ .

They look at each other, then one clears his throat roughly.  “Beg your pardon, miss. Just admiring the view is all.”

“Yeah?  Well, how about you go admire the view elsewhere before I put a bullet in both of you.”

“We was done here anyway,” one of them grumbles, attempting to save face as he complies, his friend following shortly behind him, and they only look back once, their paces then increasing as they see Jiya still watching them, a smile on her face and her gun still in hand.

She turns back to the team once they’ve disappeared from sight, only to see Flynn and Lucy openly goggling at her.  Amy looks impressed, but having only spent a grand total of two hours in Jiya’s company, she doesn’t understand why they’re particularly shocked at the events that just transpired.

“What?”

“That was, uh.”  Lucy shakes off her surprise and glances at Flynn.  “That was different.” 

Jiya’s smile fades.  “Unfortunately not, at least in my experience.”  She looks down, and they can see the sadness in her eyes.  “I learned a few tricks over the past three years.”

Lucy takes a step toward her, intending to hug her, but Jiya steps out of her reach.  “Come on,” she mumbles, shoving her gun back under the shawl as she continues forward.  “We need to find that sleeper.”

“Jiya-”

“I said hurry up.”

“Jiya!”

She rounds on them, mouth open with another sharp comment on her tongue, but then she realizes none of them are looking at her.  She traces their line of sight to the wall next to her and comes face to face with her own image. “What the hell?” she mumbles, reaching out to rip the poster off the single nail it’s hanging from.

  
__  
WANTED  


_ DEAD OR ALIVE _ __  
  


_ Jiya Marri _

_ Mid-dark complexion, with short stature and black hair _

_ Accused of murder, train robbing, poaching _

 

_ REWARD _

_ 500 gold pesos _

“There’s one for all of us,” Lucy says, her eyes drifting over the posters, and she freezes as she sees the final one.

Amy speaks before she can draw attention to it.  “There’s one for Wyatt.”

“Yeah,” Lucy murmurs, eyes locked on the roughly drawn image of Wyatt’s face.

“But Wyatt isn’t here.”  Amy turns to Flynn. “How could they possibly know what he looks like?”

“They didn’t.  Whoever put these bounties out on us did.  And I can make at least two guesses at who that was, especially considering there isn’t a poster for you.”

Amy looks back at them.  “So they think Wyatt is here instead of me.  They don’t know yet.”

“We need to get moving,” Lucy says, tearing the remaining posters off the wall and balling them up in her hands.  “And we need to be less conspicuous.”

“Less conspicuous, how?”

“We need to change.”  Lucy turns to Flynn. “Think you can track down three small men’s outfits?”

He grins.  “Give me twenty minutes.”

* * *

It ultimately only takes Flynn ten minutes to find three men who look roughly the size of the three women, and he manages to dispatch of each one quietly (and nonlethally - Lucy must be rubbing off on him).  Lucy is the first to change, and she disappears with Flynn briefly, returning just as Jiya and Amy finish pinning their hair up under their hats and with four horses in tow. They set out north in a hurry, hoping to put distance between them and the town before the owners of the stolen horses have time to miss them.

They wait until they’ve lost sight of Coloma before they slow their pace, allowing the horses to walk at a reasonable clip rather than the canter they’d maintained since they’d left the town limits.  Lucy eases up on her horse’s pace and falls back to ride beside Amy, and Jiya takes the hint, moving to ride beside Flynn ahead of them instead.

“How you doing, kiddo?”

“Barely keeping up,” she admits.  “Still feels like I’m dreaming.”

“Need me to pinch you?”

Amy laughs quietly.  “Yeah, actually, that would be great.”  She extends her arm to Lucy, who follows through on her offer.  “Ow!” Amy shakes her arm until the sting fades. “Jeez, you never used to pinch that hard.  Looks like all the time traveling has toughened you up a bit.”

Lucy smiles.  “More by necessity than anything else.”

Amy’s grin fades.  “What do you mean?”

Lucy spends the next few miles outlining their story so far.  Amy listens without interruption, shooting Flynn a look as Lucy details the contentious start to their partnership.  Lucy opts to avoid the topic of their mother, still not ready to broach that subject with her. She’d barely processed her death, let alone putting that on Amy as well, and god knows what sort of world Amy left behind when she jumped timelines.  

Not to mention the fact that their mother had essentially traded Amy’s life for her own, a fact that crushed Lucy every time she thought about it.  It was difficult to reconcile the mother who rocked her at five years old, sitting in Lucy’s bed as she gathered her into her lap, her arms tight around her to keep her safe - with the woman Lucy now knew her to be, the Rittenhouse puppet who cared only about power, about her cause, about ‘strong bloodlines’ and ‘legacy’.  Her mother had always had the ghost of those beliefs, on a smaller scale, of course - her perfectionism, her painfully high standards that no one could live up to, her expectation of her eldest daughter’s life choices and her insistent need to cast judgment on any decisions that Lucy made herself for the sole pursuit of her own happiness.

_ “You can’t leave Stanford.  You can’t leave **me**.” _

_ “Join a band?  Come on, Lucy, be serious.  You’re smarter than that.” _

Truth is, she has never known who her mother was.  And until she can make peace with that fact, she can’t dump that on Amy’s shoulders as well.  She wouldn’t even know where to begin.

Lucy’s voice is quiet again as she goes over events with Wyatt, the start of something she could see a future in, only to have it immediately turn to ash in her hands.  She can see Amy frown, knows she’s holding back some choice words about Wyatt, and continues the story quickly; she can’t handle a discussion about that, not right now, not when she’s trying to focus on the mission at hand and barely holding herself together as it is.

Amy is more or less up to speed by the time Flynn steers them toward the shade of a nearby tree to give the horses a rest.  Jiya seeks her out before she has a chance to ask Lucy any further questions, taking advantage of their break to walk Amy through how to actually use her knife properly.  Lucy watches them briefly, smiling as Amy botches a throw and shares a laugh with Jiya.

She hears Flynn’s heavy footsteps on the dry grass behind her before she sees him.  He stops just behind her, hands on his hips as he watches the two of them.

“Something is so, so different about that girl,” Flynn says quietly about Jiya, watching her nod in approval as Amy lands a throw on a nearby small tree. 

“It’s called growth,” Lucy says, finally turning away and heading back toward her horse, and Flynn follows.  She ignores him, instead focusing on petting the brown mare’s head. He goes to his own horse (that is, unfortunately, standing right beside Lucy’s) and fiddles with the saddle, checking to see if anything needs adjusting.  Lucy watches him for a beat, then asks quietly, “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” he asks over his shoulder, not looking at her.

“Wyatt.”

He pauses, then turns to face her. “What about Wyatt?”

“Come on, Flynn. Please don't insult my intelligence. You didn't tell me he…” Her voice breaks and she chokes on the word, but thankfully he doesn't need her to fill in the blank. 

“You're right, I didn't.  But it wasn’t for the reason you think.”

“What, the constant pissing contest between you two, like teenagers trying to one-up each other any chance they get?”

“It had nothing to do with Wyatt,” Flynn says, his voice terse. 

“Then why?”

The way Flynn looks at her then is new, his head tilted and eyes slightly narrowed, as if he's sizing her up. She swallows, painfully self-conscious, but glares back at him, her chin lifted in stubborn defiance. 

He snorts softly and looks down at his boots a moment, then looks up and nods his head towards Amy. 

“You've been looking for that girl over there for almost two full years. You carried her picture around everywhere you went. You whispered her name in your sleep, cried over her when you thought no one was looking..” He shrugs. “I thought you deserved a moment of happiness that wouldn't be overshadowed by more pain. It's...what I would have wanted if I had gotten my family back.”

Her brow furrows. The way he says it isn’t lost on her, and she’s had a gut feeling for the last few days that she’s starting to feel more and more may be true.  First that moment in San Francisco, seated at a table alone, feeling numb from pain while Flynn worked up the courage to say words that he never did manage to get out. And then after….after everything, him holding her close, foreheads touching as he rocked her slowly, whispering over and over again, “ _ Moja srce, shhh, I'm here”  _ as the click of Emma's high heeled boots on the cobblestones receded into the distance, and not once,  _ not once _ did he move to follow. He stayed there with her until she'd cried all her tears, until she had nothing left in her but the hollow emptiness of more loss than one woman can handle, and he'd draped his jacket around her shoulders, held her tight against his side with his good arm as they slowly made their way back to Wyatt and Jiya.  

“What did it mean?” she finally says, her voice quiet.

Flynn's brow furrows in confusion.  “What did what mean?”

“ _ Moja srce _ . You kept whispering it, while you…” She doesn't quite know how to put it -  _ while you held me, while you kept me safe, while you felt my pain as if it had been your own.  _ “After Emma got away.”

It's a subtle shift, but she can see something like panic in his eyes, and he turns away from her, fiddling once more with the saddle. “It's Croatian.”

“I gathered that,” she says, staring him down. “You're avoiding the question.”

Flynn takes his hat off and rests it on the saddle pommel, then runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair as he turns back, the bright sun overhead making him squint. He stares at something in the distance, arms crossed. He's nervous. 

“ _ Moja srce _ is...an endearment.” He clears his throat, uncomfortable, and looks down at his boots again, a long pause stretching thin before he mumbles, “It means 'my heart’.”

She stares at him, the most uncomfortable three seconds of silence he's had in some time, then blinks, the shock wearing off.  Flynn looks as if he wishes the earth would swallow him whole. “Flynn.” He doesn't look up. She takes a step closer. “Flynn,  _ look _ at me.”

He finally makes eye contact. 

“Is there-”

She doesn't get any further in the question than that, as they're immediately interrupted by Jiya shouting their names. They both look her way and see her pointing toward the distance. 

“We have company!”

Both Flynn and Lucy immediately draw their guns, holding them aimed at the ground by their sides, not yet an open challenge but still a show of force, as the riders near them. Jiya stands a short distance away, her hand resting on the revolver still sitting in its holster at her hip, while Amy hovers near her, nervous and doing her best to look equally as confident as the rest of them despite her fear and utter confusion at everything taking place.

“Those are my horses,” the lead rider says bluntly as he slows to a stop in front of them, noting their weapons but clearly not viewing them as much of a threat. “I don’t like when people mess with what belongs to me.  Do you know what we do to thieves around here?”

“Just borrowing them,” Flynn says in response, his hand resting casually next to the gun beneath his jacket. “Should only be a day.”

“Are you listening,  _ gringo _ ? Those are stolen-”

“Yes, they certainly are, aren't they?” Jiya says, cutting him off. She crosses to the nearest horse and lifts the edge of its saddle blanket, revealing a brand. “These horses all have different brands on them. You stole them first.  So go ahead, tell us what they do to thieves around here.”

The man stares her down, eyes narrowed, then smiles. “I like this one.  She has  _ cojones _ .  But unfortunately for you, I’m the one holding a gun pointed in your direction.”

“You’re Joaquin Murrieta,” Lucy says abruptly, and if she’s bluffing, she’s rather convincing, as there’s no trace of a question in her voice.

“This one seems to know who I am,” he says over his shoulder to his men.  “Well then, go ahead. Who am I?”

“One of the most dangerous bandits in California.  Your family-”

“That’s enough,” Joaquin says sharply, cutting her off.  “If you know that much, then you also know what I’m willing to do to people who mess with what belongs to me.”

“Please,” Lucy says, her voice softer and more pleading.  “Someone we love dearly was murdered, we’re just trying to find the people who did it - same as you.”

“Tragic story, I’m sure, but none of my concern.  I’m not in the business of charity.” He pulls back the hammer on his pistol, and Flynn immediately pulls his own gun, Jiya following suit.

“Wait, wait, wait, just listen,” Lucy says quickly, her hands out to her sides to show she’s no threat.  “We can lead you to gold. We're willing to do that if you just let us use the horses a bit longer.”

“What do you know about gold?”

“We know where to find lots of it,” Lucy says sharply, “and it’s worth a lot more than these horses.  We’ll take you right to it, in exchange for borrowing the horses. Deal?”

Joaquin looks at Lucy, eyes narrowed, considering her proposition.  She lowers her hands somewhat, ready to reach for her gun if need be but praying she won’t need to.  After a painful stretch of silence, Joaquin finally slides his gun back into his holster.

“We have a deal.  Lead the way. We ride until nightfall.”

Lucy lets out a breath she’d been holding, and Flynn holsters his own weapon once more.  Both of them nod their thanks at Jiya for her quick thinking, and she nods back as she helps Amy scramble back into her horse’s saddle.  

“Hurry up!” Joaquin calls from a few feet away, and Lucy rushes back to her horse’s side.  Flynn has already untied the reigns and hands them to Lucy before mounting his own horse. The two of them ride to the front of the group - Lucy to lead the way, Flynn to watch her back - and set off at a quick trot, continuing on their route to Sutter’s Mill.

“What, exactly, is the plan once we get there?” Flynn asks Lucy quietly, just out of the earshot of Joaquin’s men.

“There’s still no trace of Rittenhouse, wanted posters aside,” she whispers back.  “Maybe this was just a trap?”

“Pretty shitty idea for a trap.  Seems more like they just wanted to slow us down.”

“What, you think they’ve left already?”

“Might have.  You can’t think of anything else significant to happen in this area on this day?  Nothing at all?”

Lucy shakes her head.  “This is it. If it isn’t the mill, then this has to be a trap or diversion.”

“Guess we’ll find out.”


	6. Chapter 6

True to his word, they ride until nightfall, at which point Joaquin calls for them to make camp.  They can see distant flickering lights a few miles in the distance, no doubt the campfires of those already at the mill.  It’s still not very many, not as many as Lucy knows come later, which bodes well for Joaquin, something he’s apparently well aware of as his mood improves considerably after he’s seen it.  His men cook up the pheasants they’d managed to hunt down earlier in the day, and Joaquin offers some to their group as well. It isn’t much, but not having planned for an overnight trip, they’re all grateful for any sort of food they can get their hands on.

Flynn lights a fire a short distance from Joaquin’s camp before he tasks himself with watering each of the horses, and the rest of them stretch out on their saddle blankets, the saddles themselves doing double duty as the world’s shittiest pillows. Each of them is silent and staring into the flames, with the exception of Jiya, who is sitting cross-legged with the journal in her lap, reading by the light of the fire. 

“Find anything?” Lucy asks her softly, her eyes starting to grow heavy. Jiya shakes her head without looking up from the book.  When it becomes clear Lucy won’t get any more response than that, she rolls over to face Amy instead. Her sister is sitting upright, wincing as she massages her sore legs.

“I don’t know how people do this,” she mutters, hissing in pain as she massages a particularly tender spot.

“Do what?”

“Ride horses for hours on end.  My legs went numb two hours in.”  Amy looks her over. “How are you not in pain?”

Lucy smiles.  “I’m used to it by now.  Of course, the first time I got on a horse I fell off the other side.”

Amy bursts out laughing.  “Now  _ that _ definitely sounds like the Lucy I remember.”

“I’m not that bad,” Lucy scoffs, giving her arm a playful shove.

Amy grins.  “You’re a walking disaster.”  She settles back against her saddle finally and rolls on her side toward Lucy.  “But that always was one of my favorite things about you. I missed it.”

Lucy is quiet as she once more scans her sister’s face, her eyes tracing the lines of freckles dotted along Amy’s forehead, the sandy brown hair that is an utter mess and hanging haphazardly around her face, and the dimples that appear as Amy gives her that familiar toothy grin. “What?”

_ I never thought I’d see you again.  I’d just started to mourn you. I’d forgotten how your voice sounded. _  How could she even begin to tell her how hard it had been?  “I’m just…” She reaches out to take her sister’s hand and squeezes it tightly.  “I’m really glad I have you back.”

“Same,” Amy replies, squeezing Lucy’s hand in return.  “It’s been a lonely few years.”

“Speaking of which, you’ve heard my ‘story so far’, but I haven’t heard yours.  What happened after I left?”

Something passes over Amy’s face, something that Lucy doesn’t know how to read.  “A lot, actually. It was a rough six months trying to take care of mom and track you down at the same time.”

“Six months?”  Lucy knows the answer, but she asks the question anyway.  “Is that when she…?”

“Yeah.”  Amy takes a shaky breath.  “Yeah, she...after your birthday came and went without any news of where you were, she just seemed to...shrink.  She was a ghost of herself. You wouldn’t even have recognized her toward the end. She was so light I could carry her.”

Lucy can feel the tears burning behind her eyes and blinks them away.  “Was it peaceful?” she asks quietly as unbidden images flood her mind of her mother’s desperate face as she bled out on the floor next to Nicholas’s immobile form, as she gripped Lucy’s hand tightly while her own hands shook, as she choked back the blood flooding her throat-

“Yeah.  Yeah, it was,” Amy says, her voice quavering.  “She asked me to crawl onto the bed next to her.  She held me, ran her fingers through my hair and hummed that song from when I was little, the record she’d play that always helped me sleep.”  Amy quickly wipes tears away with her sleeve. “I fell asleep listening to her hum while she rocked me. When I woke up, she was gone.”

“It sounds exactly like what she’d have wanted,” Lucy says softly, her voice strained.  “She always said we were her whole world.”

_ And she lied.  She lied and she lied, over and over again. _

After a beat of silence, Amy sits up again and looks over at her.  “Luce, there's one thing you never talked about when you explained everything that's happened to you, and it’s been bugging me.”

Lucy sits up as well.  “What is it?”

“You said that every new ‘timeline’ has a version of whoever stays behind when something changes in the past. But in this timeline that you’ve been living in, I'm not here.  Why?”

Oh god, where did she even begin?  Thankfully, Lucy is saved at the last second by Flynn returning to their camp from wherever he’d been hiding.  He steps between them to reach his own blanket, opposite Lucy with the fire between them, and seats himself with a quiet groan.

“Doing okay, old man?” Lucy asks him, her lips curling in a half smile.

He snorts softly as he takes off his hat and sets it to the side, then rubs both palms over his tired face.  “I’m just exhausted. It’s been a long 24 hours.” He turns his attention to Jiya. “Come across anything interesting?”

It takes Jiya a moment to realize he speaking to her and she looks up from the journal finally.  “Oh, uh...sort of. Lucy never wrote anything explicitly about my visions, or at least I haven’t found it yet, so all I have to go on are little snippets, offhanded comments, allusions to them.  Mostly theoretical conversations that they had.”

“They being…?”

“Their Lucy and Jiya.”

“What sorts of theories?”

“Ideas for how to get Rufus back.  None of them seemed to pan out. The most promising was the autopilot system that apparently I designed, but according to the journal I had only just finished it before I lapsed into a coma-”  They can just barely hear the unsteady breath she takes between words. “-and that’s where the entries end. It must be when they decided to bring the book to us instead.” She closes the book and sets it on the ground next to her.  “There has to be a reason she gave the journal to me and not to you or Flynn. I feel like she was trying to tell me something, I just have no idea what it is.”

“I have one suggestion,” Flynn says quietly, not looking up from the fire as they all turn to him.  “The linchpin in everything that happened was one individual. It all traces back to her.”

It takes Lucy a second.  “What, you mean Jessica?”

Flynn nods.  “It stands to reason that if she was removed from the equation, nothing that came after her reappearance would have happened.

“You’re not suggesting what I think you are, are you?” Jiya asks, eyebrow raised. 

Flynn shrugs. “It’s just one possible solution.  Take her out of the timeline and it would solve a lot of problems.”

Lucy shakes her head.  “She’s pregnant. We can’t.”

“Now, maybe.  But the night she died, back in 2012, she wasn’t.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence as they all digest his words.  Lucy can see his face through the fire, grim and exhausted. Though he’s offering the solution, he clearly has no desire to see it through.  But she knows he would do it if it was asked of him. And she has no intention of asking.

“I mean, it is a reasonable idea,” Jiya says, shrugging.  “Take her out in 2012 and it would change everything that came after.”

“And erase Wyatt’s child in the process.”  Lucy shakes her head again. “It’s an easy way out at the expense of other people, and tantamount to murder.  We’re no better than Rittenhouse if we do that.”

“Lucy,” Flynn asks softly, “has it occurred to you that Jessica may have been lying about the baby?”

She sighs. “Of course it’s occurred to me.  Despite what people may think, I’m not naive.  But is that a gamble you're willing to take? Maybe she isn’t pregnant, but if she is...that’s the last piece of Wyatt we have left, that we’ll just be...erasing.  And if we took her away, again, after he went through so much pain in getting her back, he’d never forgive us. I won’t spit on his grave like that.”

They fall silent once more.  Lucy stares into the fire, the sound of crackling wood soothing her, until she notices her sister snoring softly next to her, and she finally lies down as well.  “We should all get some sleep. We have no idea what we’ll find at the mill come morning.” She rests her hat over her face to block out the light, and before long falls into an uneasy sleep.

A few hours later she snaps abruptly awake, hearing the sound of snapping twigs somewhere nearby.  She pulls the hat off her face and sits up quickly. The fire has long since burned down to embers, and both Amy and Jiya are still curled up on their sides, looking equally as uncomfortable as they attempt to sleep on the cold, hard ground.

Lucy glances around for the source of the noise and finds nothing.  Then her eyes fall on the spot where Flynn had been the night before, only to see it empty, and not only is the man himself missing, but his blanket and saddle are gone as well.  The journal that had been lying next to Jiya the night before had somehow made its way over to Lucy’s side, and she can see a loose slip of paper that doesn’t belong tucked inside the cover.  She tugs it out and unfolds it, and gets through only the first few lines before she scrambles to her feet.

“Flynn?” she calls in a hushed whisper as she heads for the horses, and gets no response.  The horses are all huddled in a group, and she counts three of them, with Flynn’s black mare absent.  She can hear grass rustling in the distance, and heads toward the sound, her quick strides turning into a jog, until she finally sees a tall figure in the darkness leading a horse slowly by the reins and obviously trying to stay quiet (as if that’s remotely possible for a man of his size).  She’s so relieved to have caught up with him that it takes her a moment to realize he’s heading back the way they’d come the day before. It doesn’t take her long to put the pieces together, and her wave of relief turns quickly into a flood of anger.

“Where are you going?” she asks, cutting loudly through the silence.  

Flynn stops as he hears her voice, and he turns around, looking surprised to see her.  “I was trying not to wake you,” he says, as if it explains anything. 

Lucy continues towards him.  “Where are you going?” she repeats, her tone sharper this time, and she holds up the letter that is still crumpled in her hand.  “And what the hell is this?” Her eyes finally adjust to the dark and she can see Flynn is staring down at the ground, hand on his hip, clearly debating what to say.  She can’t read his face, and it somehow brings to mind a version of Flynn she hasn’t seen in some time. Conflicted, resolute but pained. He looks like a ghost of the man she remembers from years ago, and she hates the sight of it.

Flynn doesn’t answer.  She knows the answer to her question already, thanks to the letter she’d skimmed, but she wants to hear him say it.  “Flynn, are you leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He sighs and loops his horse’s reins loosely around a nearby branch before facing Lucy.  “I was-”

“Going to 2012,” Lucy finishes for him, the anger in her voice barely restrained.  “Going to kill Jessica.”

He closes his mouth abruptly and nods.

Lucy stares at him a moment, her expression torn between hurt and anger, and then she closes the distance between them quick enough that Flynn takes an instinctive step back.  She raises a hand as if about to slap him, but Flynn doesn’t move away, and she stops short of following through. He would let her. He would actually let her do it.  _ What the hell am I doing? _

Her hand drops, but her face remains contorted with anger.  “How  _ dare you _ .”  Her voice is strained, eyes burning with tears that she’s trying to hold back.  “Everyone else has left me behind, and now you’re leaving too? To, what, die in some heroic sacrifice?”

“Lucy, I-”

“I can’t take any more of this - and for you, of all people, to be leaving...didn’t you always say we’d only fail if we gave up hope?”  

Flynn reaches for her face as her tears finally fall and wipes them away with his thumb, letting his hand rest against her cheek a moment longer than necessary before dropping back to his side.  “Someone needs to do something, Lucy,” he says, his voice low and dejected, “and if anyone on this team is expendable, it’s-”

“Don’t you dare say it.”  She jabs a finger into his chest.  “No one on this team is expendable.  Rufus wasn’t, Wyatt wasn’t, and you aren’t either.”

“Lucy, I’ve done...horrible things.”

“Which one of us hasn’t?  All of our hands are dirty in this fight.”

“But you didn’t let it destroy you the way I did.”

Her face falls.  “Is that what you think?” she asks him, her voice softening.  Flynn won’t meet her eyes. “Flynn...you’re a  _ good man _ .”

“The fact that you can say that, after everything I did to you, to your team-”

“ _ Our _ team.  And you were fighting a war that none of us understood.  Hell, we were fighting  _ for _ Rittenhouse the entire time we were chasing you.  We’ve all made mistakes and not a single one of us is blameless.   You aren’t the same man you were then, Flynn. None of us are.”

“Lucy, if I do this, it could end this war.  Maybe even bring Rufus and Wyatt back.”

“And, what, trade your life for theirs?”

“It would be worth it.”

“You don’t get to decide that!”  She’s shouting now, her voice echoing off the nearby hillside.  She’s likely going to wake the whole camp soon, but can’t quite bring herself to care.  

Flynn winces but is otherwise unfazed by her outburst.  “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t give  _ anything _ to have them back.”

“Not if it means losing you instead, Flynn.”

“They didn’t deserve what happened to them.”

She doesn’t quite know what to say to that.  The self-loathing in his words is palpable and it breaks her heart.  “You’re right, they didn’t. But that doesn’t mean you do.”

Before he can formulate a response to that, Lucy steps forward and slips her arms beneath his coat and around his waist, pulling him into a tight hug.  Flynn is taken aback and for a moment isn’t sure what to do, before he finally nervously wraps his arms around Lucy in return, relaxing somewhat when she doesn’t immediately pull away from him.

“I can’t lose you too, Flynn.  Not even to get them back.”

“Lucy…”  He swallows the lump in his throat.  “Please, let me...let me do this for you.”

She shakes her head against his chest.  “There has to be another way. I can’t do this without you, Flynn.  We need you.” She grips him tighter, hesitating before she then adds,  “I need you.”

There’s a long silence as Flynn holds her, his cheek resting against her hair.  Then he nods and takes a step back, gently letting go of her. “Okay.”

“You’ll stay?”

“Yes.  Yes, I’ll stay.”

* * *

Nightmares, as usual.

_ “Rufus, no no no, Rufus please, stay with me-” _

_ Choking on his own blood.  His eyes are terrified and desperate. _

Getting the usual one out of the way early, then.

_ Her first shift at the bar, wearing the uncomfortable dress she’d been given. _

_ He tried to get handsy with her.  Wouldn’t take no for an answer, whether she said it or yelled it.  She kicked him with both feet in the chest to get away, and then his knife flashed by and she could feel it running, hot, surprisingly hot, all down her chest and her arm, soaking her green dress red just as the owner finally intervened.   _

_ Fei had cried while stitching up her neck.  Problem (mostly) solved. She’d just have to pray the 17th-century bugs wouldn’t kill her anyway. _

_ “That’ll be coming out of your wages.”  What a joke. _

_ The next dress is purple. _

She thought she’d successfully managed to block that one out.  If she had been awake, the scar on her shoulder would no doubt be itching right about now.

_ “I bet you 20 bucks I can eat this entire habanero pepper.” _

_ Giggling over the best tacos in San Francisco, he’d eaten the entire pepper in one gulp, almost immediately coughing and she quickly waved the waitress down to bring him as much chocolate milk as possible.  By the time his coughing subsided, his eyes were red.  _

_ He smiles, embarrassed by his own misplaced bravado. _

_ Had he always been this handsome? _

Oh, Christ, that one hurts.

_ Stanley’s hospital room. _

Wait, what?

_ He’s nowhere to be found.  She’s in the bed. The restraints are tight, trapping her; she pulls against them, panicking, and they seem to only get tighter and tighter the more she struggles. _

_ “It’s not me!” she yells at the open door. This has to be a mistake.  “Let me go, I don’t belong here!” _

“Hush, Jiya.  You’re safe.”

Her eyes open, not to the California desert, but to the very hospital room she’d visited Stanley in earlier that day.

“Stanley?”

And there is Stanley Fisher, standing next to her, calmly undoing her wrist restraint.

Standing.

No, that can’t be right.

“What’s going on?” she asks him softly, eyes darting around the room in panic.  “Where are we?”

“Calm down, you’re safe.”

“I was...I was sleeping,” she says as he finishes unbuckling her arms, talking herself through it while rubbing her sore wrists.  “I was dreaming. I must still be dreaming, then.”

“Yes. And no.”  He smiles as he finishes with the last restraint.  

Once free, Jiya quickly scrambles off the bed and gets to her feet.  “So this is a vision?”

“I call it the lobby.  Utilizing the relaxed state your mind is in during sleep.  Reaching out across timelines.”

Her breath catches in her throat.

“This is the dot on the i.”

She has no idea what he’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter anyway.  Across timelines. He’d said across timelines. “So you’re not from my timeline - my home timeline, I mean.”

“No.  I was visited first by myself.  He told me about you.”

He did it.  Stanley actually did it.  

“Where are we?”

“It’s a projection of a space we’ve both inhabited.  It’s an intersecting point. The walls are weaker.”

She looks him over.  “You’re standing. How are you standing?”

“None of this is real.  I have no physical form to keep me immobile.”  He gestures for her to sit, then takes the chair next to her.

“Why did you contact me?” Jiya asks, her hands clasped tightly.  She doesn’t want to hope, can’t hope…

“You’re searching for him.”  Stanley grins. “Rufus.”

Jiya’s breath catches.  Her heart is beating so fast she thinks she may pass out.  “He’s...he’s alive?” she breathes, dazed.

“Yes.  Very much so.”

She covers a sob with her hand.  They’d done it. They’d found him.

“Where?  H-how do I...how do we reach him?”

“I’m afraid I’m no help there.  I’m simply the messenger.”

Her face falls.  “So it’s back to square one.”

“Not necessarily.  If you want, I can pass on a message.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to her, that this Stanley would inevitably wake up the same as the one in her own timeline - and apparently wake up to a world where Rufus is alive.

Which means she’s dead.

“I don’t, uh…”  She sniffles and wipes her face with her hand, composing herself.  “I’m not sure what to say. Is he...is he even the same man?”

“Yes.  And no.”

“That answer is getting real old, buddy, I’ve gotta say.”

“What makes the man?  The sum of his experiences, or his physical form?  His essence, or his being?”

“Stanley, please cut it with the cryptic-”

“He’s the same man that you remember.  But his life has gone differently than yours.  He has scars here that he didn’t have there. Your memories will be different, to a point.  But he is still Rufus.”

Somehow, she had never once considered that the Rufus she might find out there would be any different from the one she lost.  In hindsight, she should have known better. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. “It doesn’t matter if we don’t match. Rufus is Rufus.”  She chews her lip as she thinks for a moment about what message to pass on, but it doesn’t take long. She looks up at Stanley.

“Tell Rufus I’m going to find him.  Tell him we’ll see each other soon, and that neither time or space is enough to keep us apart. And…”  She chokes on her next words but pushes past it. “Tell him that I love him so, so much.”

And then she wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short and sweet one today. I considered having it longer, then decided to split it into separate chapters. Thank you to everyone who has taken time to comment thus far, I truly do appreciate them, and thanks for those people who stick around to keep reading even though updates aren't as frequent as I would like. Though I don't reply to every comment, I grin every time an email pops up telling me there is one, so thank you all for making my days brighter!


	7. Chapter 7

Flynn groans as he sits up, squinting as the morning sun momentarily blinds him.  His body is aching even more now than the night previous; he’d spent most of his younger days sleeping on cots or hard ground thanks to his military service, this was certainly nothing new to him, but having his own bed in the bunker for the past few months had spoiled him.  And if he was missing his bed in the bunker, which was barely a few steps above concrete, things were clearly dire.

The fire burned out long ago, now just a smoldering pile of ashes, and he can see Lucy and Amy curled up on their sides next to each other, both shivering ever so slightly.  Lucy is snoring softly, Amy significantly louder - if it wasn’t already obvious they were sisters just by looking at them, it certainly would be now.

His eyes dwell on Lucy for a moment, who despite being fast asleep still looks worn out, the dark circles under her eyes making her look older and more world-weary than she once did.  His thoughts drift back to her face the night before, and the way she looked at him. The betrayal in her eyes was palpable, and knowing it was because of him was like a knife to the heart.  He’d told her he never meant to hurt her, and yet his actions had caused her so much pain over the past few years, starting with ripping her sister away from her, that it was a wonder she could even stand to look at him.  And she was right, of course. His track record of decision making had never been the best, at least not in recent years, and especially not without Lucy involved to act as his moral compass. 

God, he had no idea where he was even going to begin with healing the wound he’d just managed to rip back open.

Shifting his attention over to Jiya’s spot, he finds her absent, her blanket and saddle sitting abandoned, which is a good sign in itself - it meant she hadn’t ridden off alone to get herself killed (as he’d attempted to) - but her absence was still concerning, especially considering the company they were traveling with, veritable strangers who only a day previous had aimed several guns at them.  He squints in the direction of Joaquin’s camp a few yards away but can see that both he and all of his men are still present, busy packing their saddlebags once more.

He gets to his feet and stretches, wincing as something cracks loudly in his back, then scouts the general vicinity.  There are a few footsteps in the dirt leading away from Jiya’s things and heading toward a nearby slope, and Flynn follows the sparse trail to the edge of the hill and spots Jiya at the bottom, seated next to a small meandering stream.  She’s braiding her hair over her shoulder, her eyes staring out at the horizon while her hands slowly weave the strands together. He clears his throat as he draws near, hoping to avoid sneaking up her, as he’s now quite certain she is fully capable of shoot-first-ask-questions-later and can see her holster laying next to her, pistol within easy reaching distance should it be required.

“You’re up early,” he says, sitting on the log next to her.  Jiya smiles faintly but doesn’t look his way. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” she replies, but her tired voice is a dead give away.  “Just didn’t sleep well.”

“Nightmares?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

A beat of awkward silence passes before Flynn asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head, smiling at his obvious discomfort.  “No, it’s...it’s fine.” Jiya finishes tying her braid and then places her hat back on her head with the braid tucked under.  “What’s our plan once we get to the mill?”

“There’s been no sign of anyone involved with Rittenhouse as of yet, including Emma or Jessica.  It’s looking more and more likely that this is a trap.”

“Which means we’re completely wasting our time here,” Jiya mutters.

Flynn raises an eyebrow.  “Since when are you the team pessimist?”

“Since I lost everything.”

A pang of sympathy shoots through him, her words hitting a little too close to home.  Everything had been happening at such a breakneck pace that they’d hardly had a moment of downtime to breathe, to process one loss after another.  At this point the poor girl must be running on fumes, managing to keep herself going on sheer stubbornness alone. 

“It’s hard,” Flynn finally says after a few moments of silence pass, and it’s Jiya’s turn to look over at him while he avoids looking her way, leaning forward with his hands tightly clasped.  “The loss. The grief. The pain.” He stares forward into the distance, eyes unfocused, his mind clearly a million miles away.

She looks quickly at the ground, biting her lip in an effort to stave off the tears she’s been successfully holding at bay for the past 48 hours.  Her dream the night previous had given her some hope, but the magnitude of the task of locating, let alone reaching, that alternate timeline was daunting enough that her hope had steadily dwindled each minute she was awake.  “Yeah. It is.” She takes in a shaky breath, then lets it out slowly. “How do you get through it?”

He gives her a mirthless smile.  “You don’t. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other, until it gets easier.”

“Does it ever get easier?”

“It does.”  He rests a hand on her shoulder and squeezes lightly in a gesture he hopes is reassuring; considering she doesn’t immediately jerk away from him, he’s willing to call that progress, and quickly drops his hand before he pushes his luck.  “The wound doesn’t go away. It just gets easier to cope with the pain. You either find a reason to keep going, or you give up. But something tells me you’re not a quitter.”

She snorts softly, her face bitter.  “I don’t know what I am anymore.” She looks down at her hands.  “I’ve killed people. Mostly self-defense, but that doesn’t make it any easier.  It’s easy enough to do it with a gun, from a distance, at least after the first time, but when you’re up close...when you have to look them in the eyes as you stab them, or strangle them, and they struggle to get away…”  She swallows. “I think a little piece of your soul dies every time you take a life. Whether or not they deserved it isn’t really the point.”

“You’re probably right,” Flynn concedes.  “Kill enough times and you end up feeling dead inside.”

She looks over at him again.  “How do you look at yourself in the mirror each morning?”

He knows she’s not saying it as a rebuke, but rather as an honest question, aimed more at herself than at him.  He sits up straighter, stretching his legs out in front of him. “When I was younger, growing up in Zagreb, I was bullied mercilessly in school.”  He smiles at her shocked expression. “Yes, believe it or not. I was the tallest amongst my classmates right from day one, clumsy and lanky and constantly tripping over myself, and I spent most lunches reading in a corner alone.  May as well have had a target on my back. One particular boy, Tomislav, was the worst of them, and I came to hate him. I woke up every morning hoping he’d be hit by a car on the way to school-”

“That sounds more like the Flynn I know,” Jiya cuts in, smirking, before waving for him to continue.

“Well, the point is, he could have died and I wouldn’t have lost a minute of sleep over it.  And then one morning, he showed up for school with his arm in a cast, sporting a black eye and stitches on his chin.  No one knew why at first, but gossip spreads fast between children - it turned out that Tomislav’s father beat him mercilessly, claiming it would ‘toughen him up’, the typical old fashioned attitude.  Usually it was just enough to teach him a lesson, not enough to show any marks, until Tomislav was finally big enough to fight back and tried to defend his mother, and got a broken arm and a concussion for it.  From that day forward, he never put another hand on me. Not that it mattered, not that I forgave him for anything he’d done. Until one day - must have been a few years later - I was again targeted. My classmates had caught up to me in size, but I was still the weird kid who loved animals and hated fighting and was always reading alone in the corner.  I tried to fight back this time, but there were too many of them, six against one. And who should come to my rescue but Tomislav, appearing out of nowhere and throwing them off me like they weighed nothing. The end result was all of them running off, and Tomislav helped me back to my feet, nodded at me, and left. I didn’t even get a chance to thank him.  He was expelled after that, had been in one too many fights and it was his word against six. That was the last I saw of him.

“Years later, I joined the army.  I finally learned to fight back, in ways far more lethal than those schoolyard scraps.  I learned how to utilize my size to my own advantage. I was surprisingly good at it. Half of me had always suspected, always feared, that if I learned how to fight back I’d end up going the same way as Tomislav, preying on those weaker than me.  But I didn’t feel that need, that urge. I still couldn’t understand why he had done the things he did, both to me and then  _ for _ me.  So I finally asked my father, and I’ve never forgotten what he told me.”

Jiya watches him, caught up in the story.  “What did he say?”

“All monsters have their own demons.  All of us have scars that won’t ever heal.  All of us are just trying to survive. The question is, what do you do with that? Do you let the pain destroy you, do you lean in to the violence inside your soul, or do you keep moving forward, striving for justice, for redemption?”

“Is that what you’re searching for?  Redemption?”

He smiles.  “I don’t know that I’ll ever have it, after what I’ve done.  I was a career soldier, violence and killing was my raison d’être long before Rittenhouse came along.”  He looks down at his hand, at the gold wedding band there. “Lorena saved my soul in many ways. And then Iris gave me hope for a brighter future.  And when I lost them both…” He shakes his head. “I let it destroy me. For the first time, I fully understood Tomislav. That violence inside your head, anger at the world for continuing on as it always has despite the agony you’re in, and how powerless you feel in the face of it all.  All I did was cause more pain, not just to myself, but to others. People I care about.”

“So then why do you do it?”

“Hm?”

“Why do you keep fighting?”

He looks at Jiya for a long moment, long enough that she has to look away under the intensity of his gaze.  "Because I found a reason to live again. I found hope. A future."

She smiles, arching an eyebrow. "You mean Lucy."

For a split second he looks surprised, as if he’d been caught red-handed, but is able to shake it off quickly.  "I mean all of you." He pauses. "Maybe not Wyatt so much, but he was a package deal."

She gives his arm a half-hearted swat. "Lay off the guy. He's the reason Amy's back."

"True enough.”  He looks over at her again, his face filled with warmth.  “My point, Jiya, is that you're not a monster. Not in the least." He elbows her softly. "You're the kind of woman I would have been proud to see Iris grow up into."

She blinks away the tears now welling in her eyes, focusing intently on the ground instead. "Thank you," she whispers, touched by his words. 

Flynn squeezes her shoulder once more as he stands. "You're welcome. Now, let's get the Prestons up and get this mill over and done with."

* * *

Lucy groans as she feels a boot not-so-gently nudging her in the side, and she squints at the bright light of the morning sun as she rolls onto her back and looks up.  Joaquin is staring down at her with that sardonic smile of his that is starting to grate on her nerves. Despite this, it takes her a moment to remember where she is, and then hits her all at once.

Flynn.  The letter.

She sits bolt upright, eyes frantically seeking him out.  His spot by the fire is empty, his saddle and blanket both missing.  Immediately she can feel the familiar sensation of panic gripping her and she struggles to keep her breathing even-

“Professor!”

She turns her head toward the familiar voice, relaxing immediately as she sees Flynn standing near the horses.  He’s clearly just finished saddling his mount and nods toward Lucy. “I need your blanket and saddle.”

She looks down at her blanket.  “Oh...yeah, of course, just a second.”

“Your tall friend is an early riser,” Joaquin says, turning to nudge Amy in the back with his boot as well.  She groans loudly in response and swats at his foot, and he repeats the nudge, this time more firmly. 

Amy lifts her head to look over her shoulder at him, then sighs.  “I’m up, I’m up.”

Lucy gathers up her blanket and then hoists the saddle onto her shoulder to carry over to Flynn.  He meets her halfway and takes the heavy saddle from her hands, leaning in as he does so to quietly ask her, “Are you okay?”  Lucy nods and follows him over to her horse, handing him the blanket when prompted. “It’s just that you looked panicked when you woke up.”

“I thought…”  She trails off and shakes her head.  “Never mind, it was nothing.”

Flynn looks skeptical, not quite believing her, but nods all the same.  “If your sister brings her gear over, I can saddle her horse as well.”

“Where is Jiya?”

“She went ahead to scout the mill.”

Lucy’s eyes widen a fraction.  “And you let her? What if she gets caught?”

He smiles and shakes his head.  “She’ll be fine. That girl can more than take care of herself.”  He leans to the side to look over Lucy’s shoulder. “Amy! Rise and shine, get your gear over here!”

Again there’s a quiet groan of, “I’m up, I’m up,” and she crawls onto her feet, hoisting the saddle under one arm and slowly meandering in their direction.

The ride to the mill is a short one that their group takes slowly, eyes scanning the treeline and grassy fields for any approaching figures.  Jiya reappears at roughly the halfway point, pulling her horse’s reigns to turn around and come up beside Flynn and Lucy.

“No sign of Emma or Jessica,” she says softly so Joaquin and his men won’t overhear.  “Plenty of sketchy dudes panning for gold, of course. There are only a few small buildings.  We can probably check things out and then be back on the road within an hour, likely make it back to the Lifeboat before sundown.”

They reach the mill around midday and tie off the horses to a nearby hitching post.  Joaquin disappears for a few minutes, then returns with a small pile of tiny gold nuggets in one hand, grinning widely as he heads toward Lucy.

“You kept your word,” he says, displaying his handful of gold.  “The horses are yours.”

“Thank you,” Lucy says, smiling.  “We won’t need them for long. We’ll tie them off back in Coloma for you to retrieve.”

“That’s not necessary,  _ señora _ .  Four horses out of a hundred will not be missed.”

“We insist,” Flynn says, stepping into the conversation abruptly, his tone friendly and yet firm enough to stave off any argument.  

“You are good people, my friends.”  He holds his free hand out to shake first Lucy and then Flynn’s hand.  “A rarity in these times. I may not understand everything about you, especially those strange guns of yours, but I hope our paths cross again.”

Lucy smiles once more.  “Maybe one day. Good luck to you and your family, Joaquin.”

He nods once more, then departs to join his men by the stream to hunt for more nuggets.  Lucy watches him, her smile fading. “I wonder if his story will turn out the same.”

“How does it turn out?”

“Originally?  He’s eventually caught by rangers and killed.  They take his head as proof and then it subsequently becomes a sideshow relic until the San Francisco earthquake when it was supposedly lost.  If it ever existed, anyway”

“It’s true,” Jiya says as she joins them.  “I saw it. Had a brief stop in Chinatown, at the bar I worked at.”

“A shame,” Flynn says, frowning.  “He’s a decent man who was dealt a harsh hand in life.”

“He mostly turned to stealing horses as a means to increase his wealth.  Hopefully, the gold will negate any need for that-”

Lucy trails off as she spots a group of men approaching behind Flynn and Jiya, guns in hand.  It takes her a second to recognize two of them - the same two men Jiya chased off back in Coloma.  At roughly the same moment Lucy spots the same wanted posters from before, nailed to the side of a supply shed.  “Shit.”

Flynn and Jiya turn to see what she’s staring at just in time to have five guns pointed at them, without even enough time to draw their own weapons.

“Hands up,” one of the men snarls, and the three of them comply.  Lucy scans the treeline for Amy without moving her head, but sees nothing, and hopes her sister is smart enough not to come rushing to the rescue.

“You didn’t tell us you was wanted,” one of their former harassers sneers, again looking Lucy up and down.  “Nice reward for ya too. One fella missing, but three outta four ain’t bad.”

They all stay silent, not wanting to make the situation any worse than it already is.  One of the men steps forward and tugs the pistol from Jiya’s holster - she glares at him through narrowed eyes but keeps still - and hands the gun to one of the other men behind him.  Lucy and Flynn’s guns are left in place, their captors unaware of the holsters hidden beneath their jackets, which both are thankful for as the weapons are of distinctly modern design and the last thing the situation needs is another complication.

“Tie them up in the shed,” he barks over his shoulder at the other men.  “I’ll head back to town for the marshal.”

“Didn’t the posters say dead was fine?” one of the men calls, and both Lucy and Jiya look over at Flynn in panic.  His face remains impassive, calmly staring the man down.

“And drag their rotting corpses through the heat back to town?  To hell with that. Once the marshal is here, they’ll be his problem.”

Their hands are quickly bound with rope behind their backs, and the three of them march obediently to the storage shed, a gun pressed to each of their backs to ensure they don’t make any sudden moves.  They’re silent until their captors leave them alone, with one of the men standing guard just outside the locked door.

“Well this is a bit of a hiccup,” Jiya mutters, straining at the ropes that are binding her to one of the vertical support beams.  They don’t budge, proving that while they might not have had indoor plumbing or basic manners, the men of 1848 most certainly knew how to tie a knot.  “Anyone else having any luck?”

Lucy shakes her head, while Flynn grits his teeth as he wrenches on his own bonds to no avail, growling in frustration as he gives up.

“Right,” Jiya says with a sigh.  “If Flynn can’t get free then there’s no way in hell anyone else can.”

“Where is Amy?” Lucy murmurs, more to herself than the other two.  “I swear to god if they hurt her-”

“She was nowhere in sight when we were captured,” Flynn says, quick to reassure her.  “If she’s smart, she’ll stay hidden until we figure something out.”

“You don’t know my sister.  She’s not exactly the ‘lay low and wait for things to work themselves out’ type.”

“That could work in our favor,” Jiya points out.  “If she’s smart about it, she might be the only thing that gets us out of this mess.”

Flynn sighs.  “I never thought I’d miss Wyatt, and yet here we are.”

* * *

Amy’s heart is beating in her chest a mile a minute and she can’t quite seem to catch her breath.  Crouched behind bushes far enough away that she remains hidden, she watches as Lucy, Flynn, and Jiya are led at gunpoint to a nearby storage shed.  She can’t think straight, panic almost completely taking over.  _ Shit.  Shit shit shit.   _

Once the other three are deposited inside the shed, the group of gold panners turned bounty hunters convene a short distance away to discuss who would ride to retrieve law enforcement, leaving one man in charge of guarding the shack and the captives inside.  There are four men altogether, which would potentially be do-able (provided she was able to knock each of them out with enough time between that she wouldn’t be swarmed), but considering they’re all armed to the teeth, she’s not about to go running in empty-handed.

Except she’s not, she abruptly remembers, as she looks down at her belt and the heavy knife still resting against her hip.  It wasn’t much better than plain old fisticuffs, but contrary to the old saying, it was better to take a knife to a gunfight than nothing at all.

She pulls it out of the leather sheath and tests the weight in her hand to get a proper balanced grip.  If she can nail a throw on the first try, she can take out the guard by the shack at least, maybe even do so without the other men noticing if she can draw him around the side of the building.  She reaches for a nearby rock, intending to throw it in the hopes it will catch the man’s attention, when she hears a dry branch snap behind her and feels the familiar jab of a gun barrel pressed to the back of her head.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Fantastic.  This day just kept getting better and better.  

“On your feet, hands up.”

Amy complies, dropping the knife to the dirt at her feet and forcing herself to take steady breaths through her nose to stay calm.  She turns as she rises and sees a blonde woman glaring back at her, dressed for the time period but with a distinctly modern handgun aimed her way, a silencer on the end of the barrel.

“You’re the sleeper agent, I’m guessing,” Amy says, the words still foreign to her ears. 

The woman arches an eyebrow.  “You must be new.”

“You have no idea,” Amy mutters.

“I saw three of them being marched into the cabin.”  The woman nods toward the shack containing the rest of Amy’s companions.  “But there was no sign of Wyatt. The last thing I need is an ambush. Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” she answers.  It’s technically the truth, as she’d never had visual confirmation of events that took place outside the Lifeboat once she was sealed inside.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”  There’s something on the other woman’s face; a wariness, maybe even fear.  “How can you not know?”

“I didn’t see-”  Amy jumps as the other woman takes an abrupt step closer and presses the gun to her chest, face twisted in anger.  “Jesus!”

“Where is he?!”

“Dead!” Amy finally blurts.  “I think he’s dead.”

This breaks through the other woman’s stoic demeanor.  She takes a step back from Amy, the hand holding the pistol shaking ever so slightly.  “What?” she says, a tremor in her voice. “What do you mean he’s dead?”

“I don’t know for sure, he sent the ship away with me in it.  He was shot a few times, that’s all I saw.”

“By who?”

“I don’t know, she had red hair.  Emma, I think he said her name was Emma.”

The other woman shakes her head, brow furrowed, trying to wrap her head around everything Amy is saying.  “None of that makes sense.” She cocks the pistol. “You’re lying.”

That clears exactly nothing up for Amy.  “Will anything I say convince you I’m telling the truth?  Or am I wasting my breath here?” 

“Who  _ are _ you?” the woman repeats, her eyes narrowed.

Amy is distinctly aware of the knife still laying in the dirt next to her boot and is careful not to glance at it while the other woman still has a gun aimed her way.  She just needed some time to formulate an actual plan. “My name is Amy.”

That gets her a reaction that is wholly unexpected, as the woman’s eyes widen a fraction in total shock.  “How is that possible? You’re...you’re supposed to be gone.”

There it is again - someone who apparently knows who she is when she’s never met them before.  She’s never been this popular in her entire life. “So I keep hearing.”

The revelation throws the other woman off enough that she finally looks away, just for a second, and Amy moves quickly, seizing her opportunity.  She drops to one knee and retrieves the knife, and just as the gun swings back toward her once more she slices upward, cutting a deep gash in the back of her assailant’s hand.  The other woman gasps in sudden pain and drops the gun, which she then quickly tries to snatch out of the air with her opposite hand as it falls, but she’s a fraction too slow as Amy throws a punch at her jaw.  She stumbles back, nearly tripping over the long hemline of her dress, and Amy dives for the gun, fumbling to grip it in one hand as the other woman recovers. She points it at her, silently willing her hands to stop shaking.

The other woman slowly lifts her hands in surrender.  “Do you even know how to use that thing, kiddo?”

“I’ve seen enough movies to figure it out.”  She braces the gun on the edge of her other hand, keeping the Bowie knife held point-down.  “Now it’s your turn to tell me who the hell you are and why you’re trying to kill me.”

“Jessica,” the woman says, eyeing the gun in Amy’s hands.  “As for killing you-”

She doesn’t get to finish, as they hear a yell from the direction of the river, gold panners getting into a fight no doubt, and moments later a bullet strikes a tree near them.  Amy ducks down quickly with a yelp of surprise and Jessica takes advantage of the distraction and dives toward her, wrestling with the gun to rip it from her hands. Amy grips it tightly, gritting her teeth as she struggles to hang on to the pistol while Jessica wrenches on it with all her strength.

Jessica changes tactics without warning and shoves the gun forward, back toward Amy to throw her off balance.  Almost immediately Jessica pulls the gun back, and Amy loses her grip as she stumbles forward. She frantically tries to snatch the gun back but misses, and so does the only thing that comes to mind - throws her entire weight against the other woman, hoping to knock her off her feet.

She hears it the moment it happens, feels it a half second later.

_ Snickt. _

She stumbles back a step, finally managing to get the gun back, but Jessica doesn’t follow, or indeed make any move to stop her.  Instead, she touches a hand to the large blade now buried deep in her midriff, staring numbly at her fingers that come away red, and a sea of crimson blossoms quickly from the wound and spreads across her abdomen, soaking the blue fabric of her dress.  She looks back at Amy, her face confused, and stumbles back to fall on one knee, coughing up a spurt of blood as she does so, before slumping over to the side, motionless, eyes wide but the light gone out of them.

Clapping a hand tightly over her mouth, Amy has to bite back a horrified scream.  She looks down at the gun in her hands, ready to drop it before realizing a modern pistol and silencer left behind in 1848 could spell disaster for the present, and she instead tucks it into her belt next to the empty leather sheath of her knife.  Her eyes are drawn back to the blade still buried in the other woman’s abdomen, and her stomach reels as she realizes she’ll need to retrieve the weapon.

Instead of doing so, however, she drops to her knees, and seconds later vomits on the ground ahead of her.  Her ears are ringing from the panic attack overtaking all her senses and she claps her hands over her ears and closes her eyes, taking deep, steady breaths.  She’d never been the anxious sister, that had always mainly been Lucy’s wheelhouse (and having survived a brutal car accident in her youth, that was to be expected), but Amy had also never…

Oh god.  Had she…?  

She...she’d killed someone.

“No, no, no, this is a nightmare,” she hisses to herself, tears fighting to get free, and she keeps her eyes squeezed tightly shut.  She stays that way for a long stretch, waiting for her heart to stop thudding in her chest. Finally, she peeks an eye open, confirms it is most definitely  _ not _ a nightmare, and her head (and stomach) reels once more.

She manages to pull herself to her feet with considerable effort and takes an uneasy step closer to Jessica’s prone form.  She kneels down next to her and, taking care to avoid looking at the empty brown eyes staring back at her, grips the knife in one hand, braces her other hand against Jessica’s torso, and tugs the knife back to remove it.  The sound it makes as it pulls free makes Amy retch, and she hesitates before wiping the blade on a clean section of Jessica’s dress to clear it off before sheathing it once more, feeling numb the entire time. The whole thing takes maybe ten seconds, but she knows the memory will be burned vividly into her mind for the rest of her life.

More shouts to the side catch her attention, this time from the group of men who had captured the rest of the team.  She peeks at them over the top of the bush that she’s still hidden behind and sees a few of them shoving each other, fighting over how to divide the reward from the sounds of things.  The single armed guard looks over at them, then glances at the door behind him, clearly debating whether he should step in or not. He finally decides the prisoners aren’t going anywhere and dashes over to the rest of the group.

Amy seizes her chance and sprints across the clearing, moving on instinct and thankfully just out of sight of the main group of captors.  Rather than slowing as she reaches the door that is undoubtedly locked, she runs full speed into it, throwing her shoulder against the wood in an effort to bust it open.

Wasted effort, it turns out, as she discovers rather abruptly that the door isn’t locked and stumbles through, tripping over her own legs in an effort to stay upright.  She’s quick to regain her bearings and whips around to close the door behind her.

“Amy?”

She turns back to survey the room and sees her sister tied to a nearby beam, with Flynn and Jiya tied to two others further back.  The rope around their wrists is tightly knotted, but thankfully not particularly thick; she pulls the knife from her belt and heads for Lucy first.

“No, Amy, get Flynn first,” Lucy says, her eyes darting between her sister and the door that she expects to fly open any second.  “He’s got the best chance in a fight.”

Amy does as she’s told and heads for Flynn instead, sawing the knife through the ropes until they part with a snap, and Flynn lets his arms drop back to his sides, sighing in relief.  “Get your sister,” he tells her as he gets to his feet, pulling his gun from the holster under his jacket and taking point next to the door.

Once the other two are free of their restraints, they gather near Flynn, Lucy now pulling her own gun as well.  She’s about to offer it to Jiya, who is arguably a better shot, when Jiya instead spots the pistol tucked against Amy’s hip.  “Where did you get that? No, never mind, doesn’t matter. I should take it.” Amy eagerly shoves it into Jiya’s hand, as if it burns and she desperately wants to be rid of it.

“Plan?” Jiya asks Flynn, who peers through the single dirty window.  Their captors are off to the side and still thoroughly distracted by their argument, not having noticed any of the commotion around the shed.

“How accurate are you?” he asks Jiya, nodding at her gun.

“With a Colt, fairly.  I’ve never fired a modern gun but it can’t be that different.”

“I can likely get five shots off before they react, but maybe three of those will hit the mark.”  He looks over at Lucy. “If you lay down general cover fire, Jiya and I can pick them off. You sure you know how to use that?”  

Lucy pulls back the slide on her gun as if to prove a point, arching an eyebrow at Flynn, and he can’t help but smile in response.  

“Good.  We take out as many as we can and run for the horses before they can regroup.  We all clear?” Nods all around. “Alright. Jiya and Lucy, stay behind me if you can.  Amy, sprint to those horses like your life depends on it.”

There’s no reaction initially as the door flies open and Flynn dashes out, his gun already aimed in the direction of their captors, half of which still have their backs to the shed.  The first one notices him and is reaching for his own weapon when Flynn fires - a double tap to the chest that takes him down before he can return fire - and by the time the rest of them have their revolvers in hand, Lucy is at Flynn’s side firing wildly in their direction, a few of her shots landing but none of them lethal enough to disable.  The remaining men scatter, heading for cover as Jiya attempts to pick them off, her shots quiet thanks to the silencer still on the end of her gun.

In the midst of all of this, Amy sprints in the direction of their horses, the fear of being taken out by a stray bullet giving her speed she didn’t think possible.  By the time she reaches her horse, the rest of them are halfway caught up, and she frantically works at untying all the reins from the hitching post with shaking hands.

There are only two assailants left by the time Flynn swings himself up onto his horse, and he fires a few shots to keep them at bay while Lucy, Jiya and Amy mount their own horses.  All three women kick their heels to their horses' sides with an urgency that prompts each mount to take off at a full gallop, and Flynn fires a few final shots as he waits for them to get further away, then urges his own horse after them.

They’ve nearly left the treeline and reached the road south once more when Amy suddenly feels a stabbing burn in her leg, and she looks down only to see a small hole in her pants that quickly spills over with blood.  Her face goes white as she processes the fact that she’s been shot, and she has to shake her head to focus on staying in the saddle, compartmentalizing the searing pain to a part of her mind she can ignore thanks to the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Once they’ve put sufficient distance between themselves and the mill, and are sure no one is following in pursuit, they slow their pace.  Jiya rides up beside Lucy, Flynn tugging the reins to join them.

It’s also the moment that Amy finally swoons and topples from her horse’s back, the world falling into darkness before she can hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another thank you to those readers who continue to stick around and comment - they mean the world to me and help me ensure I'm still steering the ship that is this story in a direction that makes sense. ;) Also, MurderVision Brotp is the most fun Brotp to write of them all and you bet your ass we're gonna have more of that before the story is through.


	8. Chapter 8

The instant the Lifeboat has landed Flynn is out of his seat and kneeling before an unconscious Amy to remove her restraints.  By the time she’s free and he’s gathered her into his arms, the door has finished cycling open to reveal Denise and Connor at the bottom of the metal stairs, their hopeful expressions fading quickly as they survey the carnage before them. 

“We need a doctor!” Flynn shouts as he descends the stairs in two steps, and he runs full tilt toward the hallway, not waiting to see if Denise listened or not.  He can hear footsteps rushing to keep up with him, and just as he reaches the makeshift med bay door and briefly debates how to open said door without having to set Amy down, Lucy appears at his side and wrenches it open.  He quickly rests Amy on the bed and shifts the pillows to support her bloodied leg. They had used his belt as a tourniquet while still in 1848, with one of his shirt sleeves torn off and tied around the wound to serve as a makeshift field bandage, and it had done the trick to reduce the worst of the blood loss in a pinch, but Amy was disturbingly pale already, which didn’t bode well.

“We need a hospital,” Lucy says, her voice shaking.  “Look how pale she is.”

“We won’t have time for that.”  He yanks the cart of medical supplies closer to the bed and slips on a pair of disposable gloves before rooting around for an IV kit.  “Check that side of the cart for saline while I get a line started.”

Lucy rummages through drawers until she finds an IV bag of clear fluid that she holds up for Flynn to see, and he gives her a short nod and holds out a hand for it.  He’s just finishing attaching the bag of fluids to Amy’s IV line when Jiya appears in the doorway.

“What can I do?”

Flynn doesn’t look up as he replies, “Towels.  And water. Lucy, get her pants off so we can see her leg.”

A few minutes pass before Jiya reappears with supplies in hand, giving Lucy just enough time to shuffle the 19th century pants off her sister’s lower half, and Flynn washes the blood and grime from Amy’s now bare leg, which reveals a puncture wound.  He lifts her leg slightly and glances at the back of her thigh. “Clean shot through. At least we don’t need to deal with removing a bullet. Small blessings.” He quickly finishes washing away the majority of the dried on blood, then fastens a clean bandage against each wound and wraps it tightly with gauze.  “That should keep her somewhat stable for the time being. Where the hell is Agent Christopher with a doctor?”

“Here,” is the breathless response from behind him, and he turns to see Denise standing just outside the door, still catching her breath as three strangers rush into the room carrying a field first-aid kit, much more heavy duty than anything they have in the bunker.  They quickly take over from Flynn, one woman ushering both him and Lucy outside the room so they can work.

“Go get cleaned up,” Denise says as she steps into the room, one hand on the door handle to pull it shut behind her.  “I’ve got an eye on things here. I’ll come and find you if anything changes.”

With the door now closed, the hallway is almost oppressively quiet, both Lucy and Flynn hovering as they come down from the adrenaline rush of the past half hour that had kept them going to this point.  Flynn looks down at his hands that are still covered in dried blood, not to mention his single sleeveless arm. “I...I’ll go get cleaned up.”

“Yeah, me too,” Lucy says absently, looking lost.  He doesn’t question it, instead heading for the bathroom with her footsteps trailing after him.  Lucy veers off toward the sink to splash water on her face while Flynn turns on the shower and holds his arms under it.  He watches the red stained water drip down his forearms to pool on the floor before disappearing down the drain, as if nothing had ever happened.  He reaches for the buttons of his shirt and finds his hands are shaking, and he can’t quite seem to get it under control enough for proper manual dexterity.

“Here,” Lucy says, appearing at his side out of nowhere.  “Let me help you.”

It feels strange, standing there complacent as Lucy slowly unbuttons his shirt.  He doesn’t even have it in him anymore to feel self-conscious of her seeing him half undressed, he just wants the blood soaked garment off his body as quickly as possible.  The moment she finishes with the last button she pushes the shirt back off his shoulders, stepping around behind him to tug the remaining sleeve off before tossing the entire thing on the ground.

He’s about to step into the shower proper when he feels Lucy grip his arm, halting him.  He looks back, but her eyes stay focused on the floor.

“I need to get some air,” she says, her voice soft.  “Meet me outside when you’re done.”

Flynn watches her, trying to gauge where her mind is at, then nods his assent.

Once she departs, he removes the rest of his clothes and stands directly beneath the showerhead as he cranks the heat up.  The water burns as it hits his back and shoulders, almost (but not quite) distracting him from his thoughts as he had hoped.

He didn’t tell her - couldn’t tell her - how seeing her sister laying there on the ground, having fallen from her saddle, reminded him of finding Lorena’s immobile form in the hallway.  How holding Amy against him as he rode his horse back toward the Lifeboat at a gallop, her blood soaking into his clothes, took him back to the moment he lifted Iris into his arms and she gripped his nightshirt with one tiny hand, her bright green eyes wide and struggling not to cry as the bullet wound in her chest made it hard for her to breathe, as she bled out against him and there was nothing he could do but press kisses to her face and whisper his love for her.  He had been in so many combat situations, so many wars, that battlefield injuries themselves no longer phased him - but seeing a woman or child injured, or worse, dying, was enough to break him now.

He rests his head against the aged, broken tile of the shower stall, eyes shut tight as he tries to banish the painful, horrific images that won’t stop flooding his mind.

* * *

“What are you doing?”

“Making hot chocolate.”

“You should be using a stool, you’re gonna-”

_Crash._

“I told you!  Which one was it?”

Silence.

“Amy.  Which one was it?”

When she still doesn’t get a response, Lucy sets her science textbook down on the coffee table in front of her and rushes to join her sister in the kitchen.  Amy is staring in horror at a pile of shattered ceramic on the floor at her feet, and it takes Lucy a moment to realize which exact mug is currently laying there in pieces.

“Is that dad’s favorite mug?” Lucy asks her sister softly, glancing over at Amy, who slowly nods and looks like she wants to puke.  “I told you to use a stool, you never listen!”

“He’s gonna be so mad,” Amy whispers, tears welling in her eyes.  “I didn’t mean to, I...I just missed dad, I wanted to make him hot chocolate for when he got home.”

Lucy sighs, her annoyance fading, and pulls her sister into a hug.  “It’s okay, kiddo, I know you didn’t mean to. Tell you what - why don’t we try and glue it back together?”

“That won’t fix it.”

“Maybe not, but let’s give it a whirl. You go find the glue, I’ll gather the pieces.”

An hour later, they’ve cobbled together a close approximation of a mug from the largest pieces remaining.  They sit back to admire their handiwork, Amy wiping the tears from her eyes using her sleeve. “It looks stupid,” she mutters, and Lucy smiles.

“It was an accident, Ames.”

“Mom is gonna be so mad at me.”

As if on cue, the front door abruptly opens, and both girls look up to see their parents in the doorway.  Carol doesn’t look their way at first, her attention focused on helping her husband into the house. Henry is dressed in loose clothing, a far cry from what they’re used to from their father (who abided by the cliche professor look to the letter, complete with patches on the elbows of his blazers, and for whom casual wear usually consisted of not wearing a tie that day).  He can only manage shorter steps, and so rather than wait for him to reach them, both girls jump to their feet and run into the foyer.

Henry pauses in his shuffling to open his arms wide as his daughters rush over to hug him.  They slow right before they reach him and hug him gingerly, afraid they might hurt him, but Henry pulls them tight against him.  He may not have had a lot of strength in recent days, but he always seemed to reserve some of it purely to hold his girls. Both melt against him, relishing the safety of their father’s grasp, and for a moment it feels to everyone like things will be okay.

The notable exception is Carol, who watches her children clinging to her husband with a lump in her throat.  She gently places a hand to Henry’s elbow to catch his attention. “I need a smoke,” she whispers, and Henry nods before returning his attention to the hug.  Carol disappears back out the front door, reaching into her purse to retrieve her cigarettes along the way and shutting the door behind her.

“Lets go sit on the couch,” Henry says softly, smiling at Lucy as she looks up at him.  His eldest daughter is well aware that standing for long periods of time takes it out of him, and she nods and steps to the side to get out of the way. He slips an arm around Lucy’s shoulders, hoping the gesture will appear nonchalant to the 8 year old on his opposite side, but both he and Lucy know he needs the support just to make his way down the hall without stumbling.

They make it to the couch with no incident, and Amy crawls into her father’s lap to hug him properly, her arms around his neck while she tucks her face against his shoulder.  “I missed you,” she whispers, and Henry smiles and rocks her ever so slightly.

“I missed you two more.”  He lets go of Amy with one hand to pull Lucy against his side, and the stoic 15 year old shuffles closer to hug her father again, her lip trembling fiercely as she struggles not to cry.  “What did you girls get up to today?” Even as he’s asking the question, he notices the mug on the coffee table before them, glued back together with various gaps, the message on the front ( _“Congrats on Tenure!”_ ) now reading _“Con rats on nure!”_ instead.  “Uh oh. Looks like you had an accident?”

Amy lifts her head, sniffling, looking absolutely sick to her stomach as she opens her mouth.  She never gets a chance to speak, however, as Lucy quickly says, “It was me. I was trying to make tea and...my hand slipped.  I swear it was an accident, I don’t know why I’m so clumsy-” Amy tries to catch her sister’s eye, confused why she’s lying, but Lucy doesn’t look away from her father.

Henry doesn’t quite look like he believes either of them, but has a good natured smile on his face.  “I was going to say it looks better than ever.”

Neither girl was expecting that response.  “Why?” Amy blurts before she can stop herself.

“Well...before, it was just a mug.  But this-” He nods toward the ceramic that has been Frankensteined back together.  “-reminds me of my girls. I think I like it better this way.”

“Really?” Lucy whispers, relief flooding her, and Henry nods.

“I don’t care that you broke it.  But I love that you tried to fix it for me.  I’m so proud of you girls. There’s no puzzle you two can’t solve together.”  He meets Lucy’s eyes solemnly. “Promise me that won’t ever change, okay?”

Lucy knows what her father is asking of her.  She knows his cancer has progressed to a point that the chemotherapy was no longer helping, and she knows her father returned home so that he could spend his last months - or weeks, or days - surrounded by his family.  Amy doesn’t understand most of the details beyond her father being sick, but Lucy is cursed with the keen intellect of her mother and knows exactly what is happening that none of the adults seem inclined to tell her outright.  Her father is dying, and no one knows how long he really had left.

“I promise,” she says, gripping Henry’s hand tight.  She hopes he can hear the meaning behind her words. _I promise I’ll watch over her.  I promise we’ll stick together. I promise we’ll get by once you’re gone, and you have nothing to worry about.  I’ve got this._

“That’s my girl,” Henry says, smiling as he tugs Lucy close again and presses a soft kiss to her dark hair.  “I love you two more than anything in this world, I hope you both know that.”

“I love you too, daddy,” Amy whispers, tucking herself back against her father’s chest.

* * *

The whole world is blinding pain as Amy finally wakes up, her leg burning in one spot like a red hot brand is searing her skin.  She tries to sit up and everything spins, and she leans over the side of the bed, ready to puke but only just managing to keep it down.  She shuts her eyes and lays still until the vertigo passes, then eases herself into a sitting position.

The cold metal walls of the bunker greet her - specifically, a small bedroom that Amy can only surmise is storage, judging by the shelves of 1960s bric-a-brac lining the walls.  Finding the room empty, she turns her attention instead to the bandages on her left thigh, beneath which it feels like the skin is on fire. She sits up straighter, hissing in pain as she bends her leg, and rips the pillow that had been resting beneath her knee off the bed.  She sighs in relief as she stretches out her leg and the pain fades somewhat, then slowly lays back, trying to recall recent events.

Fleeing on horseback.  The gunshot. Blacking out as she toppled off her saddle.

(The knife, how easy it slid into the other woman’s abdomen, how quickly she dropped to the ground-)

On cue there’s a stabbing pain in her leg, as if her body is pulling her mind forcibly back to the present.  Thankfully, it’s also the moment the door opens and Flynn appears, a syringe and first aid kid in hand. He slows briefly as he sees Amy sitting up, her face still contorted in pain as she looks back at him.  “You’re awake,” he says, smiling. “Whatever they make Preston women out of, I want some of it.”

“My leg hurts so goddamn much,” she hisses, massaging her thigh just above the wound in an attempt to ease the pain.  She doesn’t bother to cover up her lower half again, pantsless or not - both she and Flynn had higher priorities at the moment than worrying about her general decency.

Flynn quickly sets down the supplies he’s carrying on the foot of the bed, then kneels next to Amy and tugs the cap off the syringe in his hand.  She considers protesting for a moment - she doesn’t even know what he’s giving her - but decides she doesn’t have the energy for that. Lucy trusts him, and that would need to be enough.

“Morphine,” he says in explanation as he cleans her upper arm with an alcohol wipe, then gently inserts the needle into her shoulder with the skill of someone who’s done this before.  She’s silent as he presses the plunger down carefully, and sighs in relief as the pain quickly begins to dull.

“Thank you,” she murmurs once he’s finished, laying her head back once more.  She peeks one eye open slightly as she feels movement near her wound, and sees Flynn removing her bandages, revealing the opposite side of the gauze pads to be almost completely red.

“Stitches are holding up well.”  He tilts her leg so he can see the exit wound.  “On both sides, even better.”

“Am I still bleeding?”

“Looks worse than it is.  It’s mostly stopped by now.  Just need to shake that fever and you’ll be okay.”

“That explains the dizziness,” she mumbles, resting her forearm over her eyes to block out the harsh overhead lighting.  “How did I get from the desert back to here?”

“Not particularly easy for the rest of us,” Flynn says wryly as he finishes taping fresh bandages in place.  He stands and flicks the lights off for her, then seats himself at the foot of her bed.

“How did I get back to the ship?”

“I carried you while we rode back.”

Well then.  That no doubt explained the oddly timed dream about her father.

“I patched you up once we got back,” Flynn continues, not noticing her pensive expression, “and then an actual medical team was brought in to take over.  Luckily it was a clean shot so there wasn’t any need to dig a bullet out of you, but the vintage bacteria always does a number on our weak 21st century immune systems.”

She’d not considered that possibility, but in hindsight it seems obvious.  “Not exactly something they mention in the movies when people time travel.”

“There’s quite a few practicalities that movies always seem to miss.”  He squeezes her shin gently. “But you need to rest for now.”

“Thank you,” Amy whispers as her eyes grow heavy once more, and she’s back asleep before she can see Flynn clench his teeth and nod shortly.

* * *

Lucy stares out over the city in the valley below, the lights far enough at a distance that she can still see the details of the stars above.  She traces constellations with her eyes in an attempt to calm herself, the way her father had taught her as a child. She’d butted heads with her mother more often in her youth, as she was learning who she was and Carol was pushing right back with who she wanted Lucy to be.  Her father Henry was always the great mediator, sending Lucy outside so he could calm her mother down, then joining her on the back porch once that feat was accomplished. He would take her tiny hand in his and point to the shapes with her finger, helping her trace the lines and telling her the stories behind each one.

She hears the bunker doors creak open behind her and doesn’t turn.  She can hear the sound of heavy boots crossing the grass, and eventually Flynn comes up beside her, quiet and keeping a respectful distance.  She glances over at him and sees he’s now clothed in a clean t-shirt and jeans, his still wet hair combed back hastily with a few strands still hanging down over his forehead.  It’s uncharacteristically casual of him, which in some strange way feels to her like another brick removed from the wall he keeps up between himself and others. It’s almost as if he’s decided that he can be vulnerable around her, in however small a way that it was.  Something had changed between them, but she didn’t know what.

She looks forward once more and ignores a small flutter of warmth in her stomach.  “This is the longest I’ve been outdoors in my own present in months. The days start to jumble together when your whole life is…this.”  She gestures vaguely back toward the bunker entrance. “My life used to be writing and research and teaching and sure, maybe a bottle or two of wine mixed in there for weekly reality TV girls nights with Amy.”  She smiles. “I used to love going to karaoke with my friends every Friday. And now they have no idea I’m even alive, or that I live in a bunker with several other grown adults, my sister nearly died from a gunshot wound, and my mother is dead somewhere in 1888 and I’m the only one who will ever know, or at least give a damn.”

“There’s one other person who should probably be told what happened.”  He shivers as a slight breeze picks up, but Lucy doesn’t seem to notice the cold. 

“I’m just waiting for...the right moment.”

“When will that be?”

“I don’t know yet.”

They lapse back into silence, the south of the wind in the treetops lulling them into a peaceful state - it’s not as if they haven’t seen or heard trees during their trips to the past, but experiencing it in their own present somehow feels more significant.  More grounded. Like they’re exactly where they belong, with no roles to play except as Garcia and Lucy.

Garcia.  She mulls his name over in her mind.  He’d been playing the part of Flynn, hardened and murderous terrorist, for so long that it was easy to forget there was a man behind the mask, someone who had loved and lost as she had - except in his case, he hadn’t gotten them back.  And yet, somehow, he seems more at peace with that fact as of late, and she’s unsure as to why.

(Or maybe she isn’t.)

“Thank you,” she finally says, her voice breaking the silence.

Flynn looks up.  “For what?”

“Everything, I suppose.”

He gives her an odd look.

She smiles at him.  “In this case, I mostly mean thank you for what you did today.  For Amy.”

“It’s what any of us would have done for each other.”

“Maybe - but you’re the only one of us who actually _could_.  Where did you learn to do all of that?”

“The army.  Learned out of necessity.”

She should have expected as much.  “If you weren’t here, my sister would have died today.  I would have lost her all over again.” She wipes an errant tear from her cheek.  “And I just don’t think my heart could take that. Not again.”

Flynn looks down as he feels her touch his hand, and she laces her fingers through his as she takes a step closer.  She doesn’t look at him, but grips his hand firmly, significantly, as if she’s making a point.

“I need you around, Flynn.  Now more than ever, but...it’s been for longer than that.”  She pauses, then says softly, ”I think I’m starting to realize why I gave _you_ my journal.”

Before he can formulate a response to that, Lucy gathers her sweater around herself and heads back toward the bunker entrance.  Back into the great below, the dark sea of tarnished metal and recirculated air. Home sweet home.

She hears the scream of the alarm as soon as she pulls the door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're missing Jiya's POV, we will be seeing more of her shortly!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the #1 Riya fan SallyExactly, whom I've had great discussions with on Twitter lately.

Rufus hasn’t slept in days.

Not for lack of trying, of course.  He’d laid down in every position possible on his cot, then switched to the worn-out second-hand couch across the room, and finally tried the floor as well.  No dice. 

Weirdly, he doesn’t mind the insomnia; he couldn’t sleep if he wanted to, not with Stanley’s words still running through his head.

_She’s looking for you._

He’d been confused at first.  Who was looking? And how did Stanley know?  He’d never put very much stock in the visions, neither Stanley’s nor Jiya’s - they’d gotten a few things right here and there, but he’d always considered them a glorified horoscope, making general guesses and hoping they’d pan out.

Until now.  Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but for the first time he hopes and prays he’s wrong.

He flops into his desk chair and powers on his laptop, idly scanning the objects littering the surface of his desk while he waits for it to boot up.  His tiny clay model of the Lifeboat that Connor gifted him back when they first built their prototype. The mint condition 1980s Rubik's cube he’d given Jiya for Christmas years ago (his heart hurts as he thinks of her, but duller than normal, a shred of hope uplifting him for the moment).  And, finally, the ring.

That particular item he chooses to pick up, lifting it by the braided leather necklace he has it hanging from.  The lighting in the warehouse does no justice to the beautiful emerald in the center, surrounded by white gold filigree that he’d designed himself (well, he and Connor - somehow Connor had always had a better eye for design, while he excelled at the actual specifications and programming).  It was exactly the sort of ring she would have liked, or at least he liked to think that. He wouldn’t know, as he’d never gotten a chance to give it to her. Not before-

He shakes his head and ties the leather cord around his neck - its usual home when he isn’t asleep - and he types in his password as the login screen appears.  For the next hour or so he runs various diagnostics and checks on a few of his trace programs that are running to track down further Rittenhouse hideouts. Which doesn’t really feel like the right word anymore, not when Rittenhouse had their hands in nearly every department in the government, right down to their own presidential pick winning election (that one he wasn’t as certain of, but considering the idiot who had somehow managed to attain the highest post in the nation, it reeked of outside interference).  Their latest move, a mandatory curfew for those who lacked a permit to be out after dark, was just one of many ways they’d been ramping up their influence as of late (and of course the permits were only ever issued to those who could afford said permits - it was already difficult for him to get around at night by virtue of being a black man in America, but it was made only worse by the curfew that trapped him inside for hours at a time, whether he liked it or not).

Sometime later, he leans back in his chair and rubs both hands over his tired face as the exhaustion catches up to him again.  He glances up at the warehouse windows above and sees the sky beginning to brighten, and glances down at his watch. 6:00 AM. He’d managed to stay awake the entire night.  Fantastic. 

He hops to his feet and snatches his hoodie from the back of the desk chair, then slips it on as he descends the stairs out of the office-slash-makeshift-apartment to cross the warehouse floor.  The Lifeboat sits nearby, loosely covered in a green military grade tarp, and he pats the side of it fondly as he passes. Some days it feels like the only ally he has left (inanimate object or not), and without his one-sided conversations with his ship or Stanley he’d likely have already gone insane from the silence and isolation of his day-to-day work.

(He doesn’t want to admit, to himself or otherwise, that some days his conversations with the ship haven’t truly been aimed at the Lifeboat itself.  That some days he’s talking to a woman long gone, taking solace in the memory of her smile and laughter, keeping her memory alive within him because otherwise he’d have given up on all of this a long time ago.)

He tugs his hood up as he steps outside and retrieves his keyring to lock the door behind him.  The air is crisp, with the sun not yet having come up and a strong wind blowing in off the water, and he shoves his hands in his pockets to stay warm as he heads toward the bike he has hidden behind the building. 

God, he missed his car sometimes.  His expensive, far-too-easily-traceable car that he got rid of the moment Rittenhouse hacked the steering system while he was driving.

It takes him close to two hours to reach Golden Gate Park, having to take a meandering route that would avoid various CCTV cameras.  Connor’s ill-thought-out surveillance software had made it painfully easy for Rittenhouse to track people at will, and he knows he’s top of their most wanted list.  He’d been living off the grid for a year now because of it, using only a steady rotation of burner phones and his own secure server network as his lifeline to the outside world.  Which meant no Google and no GPS, but hey, he was a product of the 80s and 90s, he’d survive without them.

The park is quiet, the only other humans in sight being those psychotic few who jog prior to heading to work.  He sighs as he meanders slowly down the walking path on his bike, enjoying the scenery and the sunrise as he makes his way toward the far west end of the park. 

Or enjoys it while it lasts, anyway, as he manages to ride directly into a sudden torrential rainstorm.

Pedaling faster, he reaches his destination within a few minutes - a patch of trees near the Dutch windmill - and he hides his bike in the underbrush before jogging toward the windmill itself, one arm up to keep the rain out of his eyes.  It’s just his luck it would rain on the one day he needed to be out of the warehouse. Then again, the pouring rain meant no tourists would be crowding the nearby tulip gardens, which also meant no prying eyes.

He reaches the safety of the windmill - the wooden observation deck above serving as a handy shield from the rain - and makes his way to the backside where a small copse gives a tiny shred of privacy, slipping out of his hoodie as he goes so he can shake the water off.

He nearly jumps out of his skin, however, as he manages to bump into the only other person there, and it takes him a split-second to recognize her.

“Jesus, woman, why are you lurking in the shadows like that?”

She raises an eyebrow, a smile curving her lips.  “You mean calmly waiting in the spot we agreed on?”

Valid point.  “Fine, I’ll give you that, but can we at least agree that the black trench coat is overkill and screams ‘government agent’?”

She laughs quietly.  “I’ll concede that much.”  She extends a hand. “Good to see you.”

“You too.”  He shakes her hand, then slips his damp hoodie back on.  “Please tell me you have some news for me.”

She sighs, staring out over the tulip garden at nothing in particular.  “I checked out the last few potential Rittenhouse safehouses you gave me.  No dice. If Rittenhouse was ever there, they were long gone by the time I looked into it.”

“Again.  Of course.  Always two steps ahead of us.”  Rufus sighs, then digs into the pocket of his jeans to retrieve a slip of paper that he hands to her.  “I think these might be more recent acquisitions. They’re owned by shell corporations as usual, but the date of purchase is last month.  If you can check them out sooner than later, we might get lucky.”

“Perfect.”  She takes the paper and tucks it in the inside pocket of her coat, then hands Rufus a USB key in return.  “Intel for the last two weeks. It’s not much, or at least I didn’t see anything of note when I did a cursory scan, but maybe you can find something.”

“Better than nothing.”  He slips the USB drive into his pocket.  “Are you staying under the radar still?”

“For now.  But I’m sure there are moles in the organization.  I’m playing my cards close to my chest.” She shrugs.  “I’m used to all of this by now, I’ll be fine. But you...Rufus, I’ve gotta say, you look like hell.”  She doesn’t mince words, she never has, but he can see the concern in her eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”  He pinches the bridge of his nose, a headache setting in thanks to his sheer exhaustion.  “Just not sleeping well. Or...at all, really.”

“Something keeping you up?”

“You could say that.”  He smiles at her almost motherly concern.  “Just got some big news that I’m still processing.”

“Hope it was good news.”  She doesn’t quite look like she believes that he’s fine, but lets it drop.  “Meet next week? Same time?”

He nods.  “I’m guessing you’ll give me a location via our usual dead drop?”

“You got it.”  She winks and heads back out into the rain, pausing to set a hand on his shoulder as she walks by.  “Hang in there, Rufus.”

He stands there long after she’s gone, his back against the stone base of the windmill as he watches the pouring rain with his mind a million miles away.  His life has become one giant clandestine operation, not exactly the career path he’d seen for himself when Connor first took him under his wing and promised a too-good-to-be-true mid-level position the instant he graduated, regardless of his final grades.  He had gone from sharing a beautiful lakefront home in a gated community with his family to tossing and turning on ratty mattresses that were likely from the 60s at best and that he hoped and prayed every night hadn’t finally attracted bed bugs. 

At least he could take solace in knowing that his life insurance payout and the ensuing lawsuit the families of the victims of the explosion at Mason Industries had won had been large enough to tide them over until Kevin graduated, possibly a lot longer if they downsized the house.  It didn’t make it any easier that he couldn’t go cheer his brother on at basketball games, couldn’t hug his mother for comfort from his grief, but that was the price of saving the world. He’d been dead to his family for 4 years now, long enough for it to be a little bit easier for them to get through the days, and he’d watched from a distance year after year as his mother and Kevin set flowers on an empty grave for his birthday.

He can’t stand flowers anymore.

The rain tapers off finally, and he heads back toward his bike, thankful that the bushes had managed to keep it mostly dry.  He reaches for his phone, intending to look up a route on reflex, but almost immediately remembers he can’t consult a map for an alternate route and would simply need to wing it on his journey back to the pier 50 warehouse.  Thankfully, he’d memorized the CCTV camera locations for most of the city (or at least the parts he still frequented, anyway). He pushes off with one foot and rides back to the main path, then takes a right instead of left at the fork.

It’s started to rain yet again by the time he pulls up to the warehouse, worse this time partly in thanks to the proximity of the ocean, and he quickly shoves his bike back behind a stack of old wooden pallets before jogging around the side of the building and fumbling with his keys to unlock the door.

The warehouse is wonderfully warm, the industrial-sized heater having kicked in as the temperature outside dropped, and he strips off his wet layers as he crosses the main floor toward his office-turned-apartment.  Sliding into his desk chair, he retrieves the USB key from his pocket and turns it over in his fingers to examine it briefly before shrugging and plugging it into a port on his laptop. The decryption software informs him via a popup that it’ll be at least an hour before he’ll be able to examine any of the drive’s contents, and so he leaves the computer to do its thing and instead crawls onto his bed to lay down.  The exhaustion of pulling an unwanted all-nighter has caught up fast, and he’s only able to summon the energy to kick off his shoes before he drifts off.

* * *

Jiya watches helplessly as Flynn dashes out of the Lifeboat with Amy in his arms, Lucy trailing not far behind him, and she fumbles quickly with her own seatbelt so she can follow.  Denise watches them as they blow past her before she rounds on Jiya and stops her from following. 

“What exactly is going on?”

“We were in a firefight.  We thought we’d gotten out unscathed, but...best guess is a stray bullet managed to get her.”

“I thought I said to avoid firefights-”

“No, you _specifically_ said not to give her a weapon, instructions which were also ignored.”  This earns Jiya The Look from Denise, and she shrugs. “I won’t apologize for it.  She needed to be able to defend herself. Good thing, too, since we were captured sans Amy, and without her there to save us we’d no doubt would be dead or rotting in jail in the 1800s right about now.”

Denise sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.  “Go see if Flynn and Lucy need help. I need to track down a medical team with high enough security clearance.”

Jiya does as she’s told and jogs down the hall to track down Lucy and Flynn.  She finds them busy in the spare bunk that they had recently deemed the makeshift med-bay, and Flynn is dashing around the room with the focus of a seasoned ER doctor as he maneuvers various medical supplies.

“What can I do?” she asks, feeling utterly useless.

“Towels and water.”

She darts off immediately toward the bathroom and grabs the entire stack of clean towels she finds within it, then retrieves a large bottle of distilled water from the kitchen, silently bypassing a confused Connor as she does so.  She runs back with items in hand, and Flynn takes them from her wordlessly.

Rather than gawk and just get in the way, Jiya leaves them to it and instead heads for her bedroom.  She passes a still flustered Denise along the way, a tiny medical team now trailing after her (at least she assumes they’re medical; it’s hard to tell with the identical army green fatigues each is wearing).  Once she’s in her room with the door closed behind her, she takes a deep breath in, letting it out slowly as she seats herself gently on the edge of her mattress, tears burning at the back of her eyes.

God, she’s tired.  She’s been tired since they’d left the day before, really.  She hadn’t managed much sleep in the wake of everything that had happened, and the night spent on the hard California dirt wasn’t particularly restful between her nightmares and the subsequent ‘mental visit’ from Stanley.  She still wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed it in the first place - reaching out to oneself, while equally baffling, at least seemed semi-plausible, but reaching out to someone else confused her highly analytical and science-driven mind.  How had he found her out there in the...whatever it was? (Ether? Nothingness? She doesn’t have the vocabulary to properly describe any of this.) And how had they connected across timelines at all?

Not to mention the thought that made her heart race the most - could she do the same thing with Rufus?

She strips out of her baggy jacket and waistcoat and drops them to the floor, then pries at the tie around her neck until the knot slides loose.  Her feet are screaming in the too-small leather boots and she groans as she yanks them off her feet and wiggles her toes, relishing the sweet release of freedom.

She changes into a baggy pullover that was Rufus’s and her own loose sweatpants, then heads for the kitchen.  Most of the other bunker inhabitants are still absent from the common areas, but she spots Connor now seated at the central console, plucking idly at keys and reading something that he apparently finds extremely compelling, considering how far his nose is from the screen.

She reaches for a can of beans from the shelf beside the stove and dumps them into a pot to warm, then puts two slices of bread into the toaster.  She’d gotten quite used to this particular meal over the last few years, her go-to when she couldn’t afford much more (shocking that bartending and hawking cards didn’t exactly pay the best, especially if one didn’t also moonlight on the side turning tricks like so many of the other girls did).  Not that she judged them for it - they were just trying to survive, after all, and most of the girls had become her only friends, watching each other's backs as needed. It was a world that wanted them dead - not much different from the present for her, but a knife in your face was much more terrifying in the moment than the Big Brother-esque presence of Rittenhouse lurking in the background.

This feels like the first moment she’s had to breathe since her return to her former present.  Everything seems the same as when she left three years ago - the only thing that had moved on in time had apparently been her.  The skin on her hands is still cracked from washing dirty glasses for hours each day, and a scar still cuts a path from her wrist to forearm courtesy of an attempted stabbing that she’d managed to escape with only a nasty wound instead (well, that, and a subsequent near-fatal fever afterward, long before her immune system adapted to the rampant old-world bacteria).

The toast pops the same time the beans start to bubble and steam, and she plops the bread down on a plate before dumping the entire contents of the saucepan on it.

“Beans on toast?” Connor says as he joins her at the counter, clearly bemused.  “Classic English meal, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen _you_ eat it.”

“Just felt like something warm and filling,” she replies, shrugging and lifting one of the slices to take a massive bite.

He smiles.  “Well, it doesn't get much more warm and filling than that.”

Jiya shakes her head and mumbles through a mouthful of food, “ _Pafta_.”

Connor chuckles.  “Ahh, point taken, nothing quite beats a good _cacio e pepe_.”  He leans against the counter next to her.  “How are you doing? Any more luck with your visions?”

She shrugs, turning to set her plate down on the counter.  “Yes and no. There’s some stuff I still need to figure out.  But I’m closer to an answer.”

“Answer to…?”

She smiles.  “Tell you when I’m closer to it.”

She leaves him standing there without any further explanation and heads back to her room.  The bed is practically singing to her, and she crawls beneath the covers with a small pained groan - her legs are killing her from all the time spent on horseback, and she’d love nothing more than to stand immobile in a hot shower to loosen up her sore muscles, but she could already hear it in use as she passed the bathroom and, frankly, she’s far too tired even for that much.

She reaches for her bedside table to retrieve the book she’d been reading before that night three years ago (she’d definitely be starting over at this point) and realizes for the first time that she’d never removed the emerald ring the day before.  It’s a wonder that she hadn’t had it stolen by one of the many bandits out to collect the reward on their heads - maybe they’d planned to slip it off her hand once she was good and dead and no longer able to fight them tooth and nail to keep it.

Her book now forgotten, she instead lays back on her pillow and holds her left hand up to look at the ring again.  This time, instead of crushing her heart, it fills her with warmth, and she smiles as she hugs her hand close to her chest.  Between the scent of him still clinging to his sweatshirt and the reassuring weight of the ring on her finger, she feels the warmth of his presence more in that moment than she has in any of the nights since she lost him, and she finally manages to drift off into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

_It’s a sunny San Francisco day, people milling about the square as usual, which is his first clue something is off.  Not just because the sun and San Francisco were mortal enemies, but also because he hasn’t been outside like this in months.  Open, exposed, not hiding away beneath sunglasses and a hoodie, not taking steps to ensure he’s not being followed and not choosing his route based on where he’ll encounter the least cameras._

_He squints into the distance, feeling a burning sense of deja-vu as he spots a blurry figure that is somehow familiar.  He starts toward them, shoving past people who don’t seem to notice him, his pace quickening the closer he gets because...is that...there’s no way, but..._

It’s Jiya.

_She feels the sun on her face and smiles as she turns her head up toward it, eyes closed as she relishes the warmth and brightness.  She realizes quickly that this is just as much an illusion of her world as her trips to the past (the people milling about that she can’t quite seem to see the faces of being a bit of a dead giveaway).  It’s a vision. It’s not real._

_She glances around, in search of whatever she’s trying to tell herself, and-_

_Wait.  No. It...it can’t be._

It’s Rufus.

She’s speechless at first as they lock eyes, both of their faces a mask of shock as the recognition sets in.  Rufus is the first to shake it off, grinning widely as he runs toward her, and it’s that, that _tiny_ familiar expression, that breaks her.  She wants to rush over to meet him halfway, but instead she lets out a strangled sob and takes only a few shaky steps before deciding that’s all she can manage.  Even standing is too overwhelming, apparently, as her legs give out shortly thereafter.

But he catches her before she can hit the ground.  It’s clumsy, and he almost doesn’t make it, but he comes through at the last second.

As always.

“Jiya?  Are you okay?”

She laughs incredulously, tears spilling down her cheeks as she looks up at his concerned face, and grips the lapels of his jacket to pull him down into a crushing kiss.  He’s taken aback at first, but gets over it quickly and wraps both arms around her, relishing the feel of her warm skin against his, something he never thought he’d feel again.  He doesn’t even care if this isn’t real, doesn’t care if he’s dreaming; it’d been so long since he’d seen her alive and well and all he can feel is the relief and elation in his chest as he kisses her.

A few minutes pass before they finally part and Rufus helps Jiya to her feet before gesturing to a nearby fountain.  They head toward it side by side, close but at a distance, now shy all of a sudden as the onslaught of passion settles once more.

“So, uh..” Rufus starts as he seats himself next to her on the fountain’s edge, still at a comfortable distance.  “How have you been?”

“Are you _kidding me_?”  Jiya punches his arm lightly, laughing.  “We’ve just transcended time and space itself to reach out to one another across timelines and you want _small talk_?”

He gives her a nervous grin.  “So this is, what, a...dream? Or maybe I’m tripping on something, that’s also certainly possible-”

He falls abruptly silent as Jiya takes his hand and laces her fingers through his.  His grip tightens gingerly, as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he holds on too tight, but eventually he lifts her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles with his eyes closed, relishing the moment.

“It’s real, Rufus,” she assures him, a tremor in her voice.  “Or, more accurately, this is a vision - but you and I are very real.”

“Vision?” he repeats, his brows knit.  “But how am I...?”

“I don’t know either, I can’t explain it, but somehow I managed to reach out to you, and...here you are.”  She tucks her hair back behind her ear with her free hand, and Rufus sees the flash of green and gold on her finger.  He catches her hand in his as it’s lowering and he holds it still to get a better look.

“The ring,” he says softly, and Jiya looks down at her hand as well, confused.

“What about it?”

“We both have the ring.”  He lets go and reaches beneath the collar of his shirt to retrieve a thin leather cord that is tied around his neck, an identical ring hanging from the end of it.

She’s lost for words.  “You chose the same ring in your timeline?  How is that-?”

“Chose?” he scoffs, grinning again.  “I’m an engineer, give me some credit.”  He tucks the ring back in his shirt. “I designed it.”

She didn’t know that.  And she doesn’t have the words to express how she feels now that she does, so instead she looks down at her feet and mumbles a quiet, “ _Oh_.”

“I never got a chance to give it to you,” he continues, his voice softening.  “Before you died.”

“The same happened here.  In my time, I mean.” She looks over at him again, but this time there’s something haunted in her eyes.  “Only it was vice versa.”

He’s quiet for a moment as he processes her words.  “It’s... not every day that you hear about your own death.”

“Right?” Jiya says, smiling.  “God, it’s just...so good to see you, to touch you, I…”  Her eyes are shining again. “I didn’t think I would _ever_ have that again.”

“Preaching to the choir,” Rufus replies, leaning forward to rest his forehead against hers.  “I’ve missed you so, _so_ much.”

Jiya fights to clear her love-addled mind once more, not wanting to waste this chance to communicate with him.  “Rufus, I think I reached out to you because...I think I might have a way to get you here. Maybe.” She swallows.  “If you...if you want to.”

“Here being...your timeline?”

“It’s your choice.”  She takes his hands in hers.  “But I would be lying if I didn’t say that I hope it’s a yes.”

Rufus swallows.  He’s never seen her this somber, this intense.  She barely has that fire in her eyes anymore...she just looks tired and world-weary. 

“Jiya, are you fighting against Rittenhouse on your own?”  His heart beats faster when she shakes her head. “Who is left?”

Jiya looks confused.  “What do you mean? The only one missing is _you_ , Rufus.”

He tries not to look thrilled at her words, knowing she won’t understand why.  He’d been alone for so long, and the idea of having the team back together, of seeing Lucy and Wyatt again...

“What happened, exactly?” he asks, gently withdrawing his hands and clasping them in his lap as he feels suddenly vulnerable.  “To me, I mean. How did I...die?”

She turns away so he can’t see her face.  “You were-” She takes a sharp breath, as if recalling the memory is enough to cause her physical pain.  “You were shot. In the neck.”

“Who-”

“Emma, we think.”

He nods, processing the information.  Something had clearly happened to this version of the woman he loves, something that left her just a bit broken, and it hits home for the first time that this isn’t _his_ Jiya, the one he lost, not really.  It’s _a_ Jiya, that much is certain, but he knows their memories, their lives, will likely differ in a hundred ways, making her almost a stranger to him.  He isn’t sure if the idea of having to get to know her all over again is exciting or painful. Not that he truly cares all that much. Not when she’s sitting there next to him, alive and well.

“I held you,” she says, her voice soft and distant.  “I held you while you died. You tried to tell me you…”  She swallows. “That you loved me.”

He brushes his pinky against hers, soft and reassuring without imposing.  It brings a sad smile to her face.

“I didn’t even get that...actually…”

Jiya glances at him.  “What do you mean?”

“December 20, 2018.”  He gives her a small, mirthless smile.  “That was the day I watched Rittenhouse haul you into the Mothership, screaming for me to help you, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”  A pause. “That’s the last time I ever saw you. In person, anyway.” He doesn’t tell her about the photograph they’d sent, her empty eyes staring up at the camera and a ligature mark around her neck making it very clear what had taken place.

She blinks.  “Rufus, what year is it where you are?”

“2021.  Why?”

“Because it’s 2018 where I am.”

He slips an arm around her shoulders and pulls her into a tight hug.  “That wasn’t the greatest year for us.”

“Understatement.”

“It had some highlights.”

She snorts.  “Such as?”

He thinks for a moment, then brightens.  “The Rubiks cube I gave you for Christmas.  You were so jazzed-…Jiya, what is it?”

She shakes her head, tears falling again, and buries her face against his sweater.  He holds her as she cries, taken aback and wondering what he’d said to cause this reaction.

“Sorry,” she mumbles as she pulls away, wiping her face with the heel of her palm.

“Don’t be sorry.”  He wipes an errant tear from her cheek with his thumb.  “Did I say something wrong?”

She shakes her head.  “No, it’s just...it’s May here.  You never made it to Christmas.”

He could kick himself - it hadn’t even occurred to him that she was in the thick of 2018 and not just looking back in bittersweet hindsight like he was. 

“Surprise?” he says weakly, and she laughs despite her puffy red eyes.

They sit in silence for a moment, a silence that feels even more pressing with the general absence of ambient noise.  The vision had handily supplied them with a crowd of people to blend into, but none of those people seemed to be speaking at all as they moved around, like simple NPCs filling the background in a video game.  It would have been peaceful if it wasn’t incredibly creepy.

“I’ll go,” Rufus says, so quiet Jiya nearly misses it. 

She looks over at him, her heart skipping a beat.  “You mean…?”

“I’ll go with you,” he repeats, smiling.  “But you’re gonna have to help me out with the ‘how’ part.”

Jiya throws her arms around him, a grin taking over her face that she can’t hold back.  For the first time in literal years, she has hope.

“Another version of me designed an autopilot system for the Lifeboat,” she tells him as she pulls away, the words spilling out of her quickly,  “and that system has a function allowing it to take advantage of ‘divergent points’, which is how it accomplishes jumping timelines-”

He raises his hands.  “Wow, wow, wow, hang on…first off - Jiya, that’s...kind of amazing.”  He looks at her with a mixture of awe and pride, and she gives him a bashful smile and shrugs.

“It wasn’t really me that did it.  It was another me.”

“Jiya is Jiya in my books.”

She looks over at him, at those brown eyes she last saw when the light was fading from them, and feels a tight pain in her chest.  He’s so close and yet so incredibly far away, and the frustration of not being able to be with him, not _really_ , makes her want to hit something.  Her hand clenches into a fist involuntarily, but relaxes again as Rufus eases his fingers through hers.

“But I know I’m not your version of me - not your ‘Rufus’, and I don’t know if that changes anything for you-”

She doesn’t let him finish, instead leaning over to kiss him softly, their noses brushing together gently as she does and sending a shiver down his spine at how painfully familiar it is.  Taken off guard, he doesn’t respond immediately, but quickly gathers his wits to return the kiss in earnest, one hand idly threading through the cascades of her hair to cup the back of her head.

She feels the familiar pull of the vision fading, and so breaks the kiss and takes both of his hands instead.  He still looks dazed, but the look she’s giving him sobers him quickly. “Listen, Rufus, I don’t have all the answers yet, but I’m going to get them.  I don’t know if I can get the code to you this way - I’m guessing USB sticks don’t travel through timelines along with me - but I’ll figure something out.  Trust me.” She swoons briefly, the edges of the world seeming to flicker. “And keep that ring on. I don’t know how, but I think...I think it’s connected us somehow.”

“No problem there, I never take it off.  How will we-”

He doesn’t get to finish, as she abruptly falls forward and vanishes into thin air, gone even as he reaches to catch her.  Before he has a chance to protest or even wonder what’s happening, he feels the same strange sense of vertigo, and his world too goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully people enjoyed a little bit more backstory into Rufus's version of reality (I recall some people saying they were curious). This won't be the last time we get to see tidbits of it. Thank you for your patience while I took forever writing this one and for your continued readership, y'all are just THE BEST! <3 For those who are more here for the Garcy than the Riya, the best is yet to come. ;)


End file.
